


Long Live The Car Crash Hearts

by haggarrrd



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Hospital, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-07 08:59:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 29,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haggarrrd/pseuds/haggarrrd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was not the first time that Enjolras had been called to the hospital, and it didn’t matter that it was one in the morning. He would be there. He had been there when Courfeyrac got so drunk he fell and broke his ankle; he had been there when Combeferre passed out during a lecture and was rushed to the hospital with pneumonia. He had been to the hospital with all of his friends, but never Grantaire. Grantaire didn’t do hospitals; he turned up at Joly’s door at eight in the morning if he thought something was serious enough to need attention, but that was as far as his association with medics went. He had a strange aversion to doctors and hospitals that no one really understood, but no one questioned either. If Grantaire was in the hospital now, Enjolras resolved, it meant that he was probably unconscious, and had had no say in the matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Learn to be Lonely

The call came late at night, when Enjolras was drowsing into the pages of his politics text book, a cup of coffee turning cold and stale by the side of his head. He was so tired that he didn’t even hear his phone the first time, or the second; he didn’t answer until whoever was attempting to reach him tried for a fifth time, and then he answered with annoyed grumbles of, “this had better be important.” 

“R’s in the hospital.” 

At that, Enjolras finally lifted his head from the book he had been using as a pillow. He didn’t need to ask if it were serious or not; Grantaire would not condone his presence in a hospital unless it was the last option, and the terrified undertone to Courfeyrac’s usually cheerful voice was enough to let Enjolras detect the severity of the situation. He listened to the man babble out apologies for calling at such a late hour for a fraction of a moment, before Enjolras cut him off with a reliant, “I’ll be there in thirty.”

This was not the first time that Enjolras had been called to the hospital, and it didn’t matter that it was one in the morning. He would be there. He had been there when Courfeyrac got so drunk he fell and broke his ankle; he had been there when Combeferre passed out during a lecture and was rushed to the hospital with pneumonia. He had been to the hospital with all of his friends, but never Grantaire. Grantaire didn’t do hospitals; he turned up at Joly’s door at eight in the morning if he thought something was serious enough to need attention, but that was as far as his association with medics went. He had a strange aversion to doctors and hospitals that no one really understood, but no one questioned either. If Grantaire was in the hospital now, Enjolras resolved, it meant that he was probably unconscious, and had had no say in the matter. 

Enjolras supposed he’d finally done it. He thought about it bitterly as he drove away from his apartment and towards the inner city, where the hospital was. He assumed automatically that Grantaire had finally drunk so much it had caused too much damage for his body to handle; that was always how it was going to go with Grantaire. He drank too much for his own good, Enjolras had said it a million times; he had always said that Grantaire would land himself in hospital with how much he drank, and now Enjolras assumed that he had. 

And although Enjolras loved being proved right, he prayed that in this situation he wasn’t. 

He rubbed his eyes as he pulled into a vacant spot beside Marius’ hideous yellow contraption. He had no idea who else had already arrived, other than Marius and Courfeyrac. He assumed Jehan would be there, simply because the two were roommates, and Bahorel only lived a couple of streets away. Enjolras found out when he walked through the main doors, and saw almost all of his friends present. Jehan was crying, his face pressed into the crook of Courfeyrac’s neck as the brunette stroked soothing circles down his back. Combeferre stood leaned against a coffee machine, a pinched look of concern on his face as he talked to Joly about something that Enjolras couldn’t hear, Bossuet close behind them. Feuilly and Bahorel sat with their shoulders pressed together, frowning faces staring at the ground. He couldn’t see Marius, but knew that he was there somewhere. 

Enjolras walked over quickly, and demanded, “What happened?” 

All eyes flashed up to look at him, and Combeferre stepped away from Joly to stand by Enjolras. The man pushed his glasses up his nose slightly, and then said, “He and Jehan got into a car accident while they were driving home. Jehan’s fine, just a few cuts and bruises and a possible concussion but the other car smashed right into the passenger side where Grantaire was sat. Drunk driver they think.” 

“He’ll be okay though, right?” Enjolras asked, feeling a stab of guilt for assuming that Grantaire had drunken himself into an alcoholic coma. 

Combeferre shrugged, his face taking on a slightly darker tone, “We’re not sure. The doctors aren’t sure. He’s in surgery so I guess we’ll know when he gets out. Jehan had to get checked out when he got here so he’s the only one who talked to a doctor, they told him to prepare for the worst just in case, but hope for the best. He was pretty smashed up, Enjolras.”

Enjolras tried to swallow down the lump in his throat and cast a glance over to the small poet. The left side of his face, mostly around his forehead and cheek bone, was covered in small cuts that Enjolras presumed were the result of a smashing window. A bruise was already starting to flourish and take over the area around his eyebrow, and his red rimmed eyes were drooping sleepily, even as he continued to cry quietly. Courfeyrac noticed the sleepy angle of his eyes and shook him gently, mumbling something that looked like, “no falling asleep, remember? Not with that concussion.”

Jehan nodded and wiped his eyes, and Enjolras had to look away. 

If Jehan had gotten off lightly, he did not want to think of the state Grantaire was in. The thought of Grantaire fighting for his life while surgeons did their best to help with knives and clamps made his chest seize painfully. Of all the times he’d been called to the hospital, it had never been this serious; Enjolras didn’t quite know what to do. He could not be the voice of reason in this situation, and that threw him off balance. The risk of losing their dearly beloved cynic was too high, and Enjolras didn’t know what he’d do if the worst happened. If he lost any member of Les Amis, it would be like taking away part of his core, only for some reason, the thought of it being Grantaire made the feeling worse. 

It was times like this when Enjolras couldn’t really deny that the feelings he had for Grantaire were a little more than those he had for the rest of his friends, no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise. 

“Come on, sit down. I’ll get you a drink.” Enjolras did as Combeferre commanded, and sank into a seat beside Marius, who had reappeared from wherever he’d been before Enjolras arrived. A moment later a hot drink was being pressed into his hands before Combeferre returned to his earlier position by the coffee machine, and carried on talking to Joly and Bossuet. 

Marius wrapped an arm around Enjolras’ shoulder, partly out of desire to comfort his friend, and partly out of the fact that he sought comfort through contact. Enjolras, for once, did not pull away or tell Marius to stop being stupid, as he would have done in any normal situation. He just sipped his coffee, and let Marius ever so softly reassure him. And if Enjolras leaned into the embrace a little, no one mentioned it.

“Do you think he’ll be okay, Marius?” Enjolras murmured after quite some time of silence. Bahorel and Feuilly had fallen asleep across from him, and he was growing tired of watching them and waiting for answers. It had been half an hour already and they were still none the wiser than they had been when Enjolras had arrived. He was tired of speculating, and those who had been here longer than him were beginning to fall asleep. Combeferre, Joly and Bossuet had retired from their place by the drinks machine into varying seats around the room, and Joly’s head was lolling against Bossuet’s shoulder. 

“Of course I do,” Marius whispered in return, although there wasn’t much conviction behind his words. He squeezed Enjolras’ shoulder, “It’s Grantaire, he’s always okay, no matter what. He’s the strongest of all of us, he always has been.”

Enjolras acknowledged the truth behind the man’s words. Grantaire was strong, probably stronger than Enjolras had ever given him credit for, but he’d always had to be strong. Growing up with his parents, whom all assumed but did not know for sure were abusive, had taught Grantaire how to be strong; the way he’d lived during his later teen years, flitting between friends to find a couch or a bedroom floor to sleep on after his parents had kicked him out of their house, that had taught him to be strong. Grantaire’s entire existence had taught him how to be strong, but Enjolras wasn’t sure that was enough to get him through this. 

He didn’t voice his fears to Marius, and they returned into the worried state of silence that they had been in moments before. Thirty minutes turned into sixty; an hour into two, and by four in the morning, Enjolras had joined the rest of his friends—barring Courfeyrac and Jehan, who were on concussion look out—in sleep. Grantaire’s surgery had been going on for hours and they still didn’t know anything of the condition that their friend was in.

++++

“Enjolras, wake up.” The blond groaned in protest, but opened his eyes anyway. His back ached viciously due to the position in which he’d been sleeping, so he tried to stretch it out and relieve the tension as he looked up at Marius. “He’s out of surgery, we can go see him.”

Looking around the waiting room, Enjolras saw that Jehan and Courfeyrac were already gone, while Combeferre and Bahorel worked on shaking the rest of the group awake. Slowly the group came to life, all of them reawakening, some of them forgetting their location and taking a moment to relearn the situation, then listening to the news with terrified faces. Enjolras watched their faces relax as they heard that Grantaire was out of surgery and that they could see him, but he knew that didn’t mean that everything was over. He’d heard of cases where people went through surgery, only to succumb to their injuries during the night. 

They didn’t even know if Grantaire was awake. 

“Where’s Jehan?” Enjolras mumbled to Marius as they waited for the rest of their friends to stand so that they could all go to Grantaire’s room together. He needed to distract himself from everything that could go wrong with Grantaire. 

Marius waved a dismissive hand, “He’s fine, he just didn’t want to wait to see Grantaire so he and Courfeyrac went as soon as the doctor told us that we could.” He paused for a minute and smiled. Then, “Well, he said that four of us could see him at a time. Something about hospital policy but Courfeyrac managed to convince him otherwise. Money may have been exchanged.” 

Enjolras smiled; whatever Courfeyrac wanted, he made sure that he got. Everyone was standing now, and ready to go and see their injured friend. Enjolras hoped they would walk into his room, and Grantaire would be there smiling, making his usual sarcastic comments when everyone told him how worried they were, but he knew the likelihood was small. He at least hoped the man’s injuries were slight; a broken leg or a broken arm, something that wouldn’t be devastating to look at, like it was to see Jehan’s face all torn up. Enjolras knew that this too was unlikely, but he hoped for it anyway. He knew that he should expect some cuts and bruises too.

The sight Enjolras was met with, however, was one that he could not have prepared himself for. Had it not been for Jehan sitting sleepily beside the bed, Courfeyrac next to him on the floor, Enjolras probably would have turned around and claimed that they were in the wrong room. The sight of the man in the bed was almost enough to cause his knees to buckle, and after a quick look at the rest of his friends, he knew that he wasn’t the only one. 

Grantaire was hooked up to as many machines as humanly possible. A tube protruded from his mouth, which was connected to a machine that Enjolras didn’t entirely understand the function of, but was thankful for anyway. Another tube was attached on either side of his septum (Joly later told him that this was to assist his breathing, although Enjolras had presumed that anyway.) He was hooked up to a heart monitor somewhere, and an IV from his right hand, which was covered in little cuts and had two of the fingers bandaged together. His left arm was completely broken, casted in white plaster up to the elbow. His left leg was broken too, only the sight was a little more grotesque than that of the broken arm; the leg was held up in suspension, deep gashes up and down its length that had been sealed off with stitches. The leg was surrounded by two metal rings, which were held together by thick metal poles; from each metal ring protruded thinner needles, which were stuck into Grantaire’s leg. Enjolras didn’t know how that was supposed to help the leg heal, but he chose not to look at it and look at the man’s face instead. 

On his head, a tight, clean white bandage hid his hair from view, and Enjolras was unsure if the doctors had shaved his hair off or not because he could see none of those unruly curls from beneath the bandage. His lip was split, and his eyes were surrounded by black smudges that suggested that his nose had been broken during the collision. His jawline on the right side of his face was covered with the same little scratches that covered Jehan’s forehead, and a gash could be seen running through one of his eyebrows; that had been stitched, and looked as if it were already beginning to heal. From beneath the hospital gown, a slither of bandage could be seen, and all wondered what the purpose of that bandage was for.

“Did they tell you when he’ll wake up?” Feuilly asked as he moved into the room a little more, taking stance by the foot of Grantaire’s bed.

Courfeyrac shook his head, looking thoroughly exhausted, “Jehan told them to wait till everyone was here until they told us anything so they’re coming back in five minutes or something.”

A mutual nod progressed through the room, and Les Amis began to take their positions around the room. Bahorel joined Feuilly by the foot of the bed, while Joly and Bossuet stood further towards the corner of the small room, by the widow, so that they could look over everybody. Marius planted himself by Jehan’s feet, on the opposite side to Courfeyrac, and rested his head on the poet’s knee, just to let him know that he was there. Jehan smiled, and tangled his fingers in Marius’ hair in return. Combeferre and Enjolras stood at the other side of the bed, looking at each other with worried expressions rather than down at the man in the bed. The group remained in place, no one seemingly doing so much as moving, until the doctor entered the room.

“How is he?” Joly demanded, deciding that as the only one there with any form of medical training, he would be the voice of the group. 

“He’s stable.” The doctor, a small man in comparison to Joly, nodded, eyes cast downwards at the chart in his hand. “Sadly your friend is comatose, and there’s no way for us to know when or if he’ll wake up from it. It could be days, months, even years. He suffered a serious head injury, and these things do not heal overnight, you must understand. If he wakes up there are risks that he won’t be the same man that you knew before the accident.”

“You mean brain damage?” Joly queried with a cock of his head, his face paling a little at the thought.

The doctor nodded in return, “it’s always a possibility with head injuries, but we won’t be able to tell until he wakes up. There’s a chance that he may wake up in a few weeks, and his mental state will be completely unaffected; each case is different, it would be impossible to predict. My advice, however, is to prepare yourselves for the worst and hope for the best. Your friend was very lucky to survive, most who sustain that many injuries do not.”

The doctor left, and Jehan was crying again, but if anyone said that he was the only one, they would be liars.


	2. Don't Cry For Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan suffered with horrific nightmares about the crash. He recalled the details of that night in high definition, and would always rush into Grantaire’s empty bedroom afterwards to try and calm down. It was almost as if it had become a dreadful pattern; he would go to bed, he would dream of something pleasant, but the scene would always shift, and Grantaire would be by his side, looking at him with wide, terrified eyes as their car was flooded with the brightness of someone else’s headlights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I truly hate this chapter, but I can't look at it anymore. The next is far better, I promise.   
> Thank you for all the feedback on the first chapter! It's wonderful to see how much you all liked the first installment!

Jehan had known Grantaire for most of his life. They met when they were kids, and their parents lived next door to one and other. Every day, Grantaire would sit in his backyard for hours on end, making mud pies or just doing nothing at all, until his mother would lean out of the backdoor, her face very pinched, to call him into the house for dinner. Jehan would watch him, either from the swing in his own back yard or from his bedroom window, completely enchanted by the dark haired boy next door. 

On the colder days, when Jehan daren’t venture out of his door for fear of catching a cold, Grantaire would still be there, looking up at the back door with a longing that Jehan, at the time, had not understood. Jehan had simply thought the boy looked lonely, and he himself considered loneliness a companion, as he was an only child and had positively no friends no speak of. Of course, at six years old, Jehan did not understand the concept of loneliness any further than the desire to have someone to share stories with.

Jehan decided that he wanted to be friends with the boy next door. One spring morning, his mother bustled him into a thick jumper, and asked if he would rather go for a walk in the park, or spend some time at the library but the budding poet declined his mother’s offers, plans set in his head for befriending the boy next door. Should his plan fail, he knew that he would surely regret passing up a trip to the park, but he believed it was worth the risk. So, he headed out of the backdoor, sleeves bunched up in his hands, and sat on the swing for a while. Grantaire was there, as he always was, in his slightly tatty clothing, working on climbing the big tree that homed at the bottom of his yard. Jehan watched him closely, hoping that should they become friends, the boy would be content in doing less boisterous activities, for Jehan was not a fan of getting dirty. 

Eventually, the boy stopped climbing the tree, and sat down at the base, drawing patterns in the mud with a twig. Jehan saw his opportunity, and he grabbed it, fearful that the boy would start climbing or running and then he would be unable to attract his attention. Jehan stepped up to the fence that separated their gardens, and hoisted himself up so that he could peer over the wood. 

“Hello,” He said loudly, in a confident voice that caused the darker haired boy to look up and gasp loudly. Jehan smiled softly, “My name is Jean Prouvaire, and I am six years old.”

“You can come through the gate, if you want.” The boy’s voice was filled with disinterest, and he looked back down to his mud drawing. Jehan grinned, and hopped down from the fence; his plan was playing out wonderfully, and he was sure that this was better than a trip to the park. He looked tentatively up to his own house, unsure of if his mother would approve of him leaving the yard without permission, but pressed on anyway, and stood on his tip toes to reach the latch that would let him into the stranger’s garden. He rushed to enter, and sat down by Grantaire’s side a moment later. When he did, the dark haired boy looked up to him and smiled widely, “Hello, Jean Prouvaire, my name is Grantaire.” 

“Grantaire,” Jehan rolled the name around his mouth, grinning widely in success. “Do you like playing out in the garden?”

Grantaire looked as if he’d just been asked the strangest question in the world, “It’s a bit boring, I suppose, but I’m not allowed in the house during the day so there’s not much else to do.”

“Why on earth not?”

“Well,” Grantaire cocked his head to the side in consideration, dark curls fanning across his forehead as he did. “My mum says that my dad works during the night, and needs to sleep during the day. She said he’d be very cross if I was loud while I was playing and woke him up, so I have to play outside until he wakes up.”

Jehan didn’t understand, in all honesty, because his father worked during the day, and always went to sleep past Jehan’s bedtime, but it made him sad to think that Grantaire had to sit out in the yard day in and day out with nothing to do other than climb his tree and play with sticks in the mud. His mother took him out to the park, and to the library, and he had an entire room dedicated to playing, which he now thought seemed entirely unfair when Grantaire didn’t have the same. 

“Mother usually makes lunch around this time,” Jehan announced suddenly, although he didn’t really know what time it was. He just really wanted to get Grantaire into the warmth so that he could share his toys. “Would you like to come to my house for lunch? We can go upstairs and play in the play room after, if you’d like.” 

Jehan smiled and held out his hand for the other boy to take, and Grantaire simply smiled. He placed his hand in Jehan’s, and ever since then it became a sort of tradition that Grantaire would spend the day at Jehan’s, rather than out in the yard. Sometimes they would play out in the yard, or on the swing in Jehan’s garden; occasionally, Grantaire would be taken on outings with Jehan and his mother and when they got older, Grantaire would sleep over at the poet’s, the Prouvaire’s taking him in as part of their own family, and even once went on holiday with them for a weekend. 

When Grantaire’s parents kicked him out the day that he turned sixteen, he unofficially moved into Jehan’s house. The cynic only really agreed to stay there as a last resort, because he felt terribly guilty for burdening Jehan and his parents so much, so he slept in the Prouvaire’s spare bedroom only whenever he could not find a couch to sleep on elsewhere. Jehan didn’t mind; he almost felt like, at that point, it was his duty to make sure that Grantaire was alright. God knows he could never take care of himself, so Jehan had just always done it, because Grantaire was practically his brother and he wanted to see him well and happy more than anything. 

Following the accident, Jehan suffered with horrific nightmares about the crash. He recalled the details of that night in high definition, and would always rush into Grantaire’s empty bedroom afterwards to try and calm down. It was almost as if it had become a dreadful pattern; he would go to bed, he would dream of something pleasant, but the scene would always shift, and Grantaire would be by his side, looking at him with wide, terrified eyes as their car was flooded with the brightness of someone else’s headlights. He woke in the early hours of the morning, covered in a horrible layer of sweat, while Courfeyrac slept soundly next to him, none the wiser of the nightmares his boyfriend was being plagued by. Jehan knew that he’d never truly get over what had happened that night, especially not with Grantaire still stuck in that comatose state which he could do nothing at all to help. 

Everyone was struggling to go on with their lives as they normally would, in a pattern of work, school and visiting Grantaire, but Jehan could not do it. Jehan was not one to let negativity overcome him, he never had been; he was optimistic by nature and in times of hardship, his friends looked to him to inject them with the same attitude. But this time, Jehan could not find it within himself to be positive; he couldn’t reassure his friends that Grantaire would be fine, and would wake up, because he could not even reassure himself that everything would be fine. His friends had not been there, so he doubted they would be able to understand; they had not seen Grantaire when the paramedics finally managed to free him from the mess of crushed metal that had been a car; they had not seen his face so covered in blood that it scarcely looked like the cynic anymore. They especially had not been there when, in the ambulance, a shrill and steady beeping had filled the small space, and medics had been pumping on the man’s chest before Jehan could even process the fact that Grantaire’s heart had stopped.

As the days passed and turned into weeks, and Jehan’s dreams were swamped with nightmares, he started to lose faith that Grantaire would wake up. 

+++++++

Much like the doctors predicted, Grantaire did not wake up during that first week, nor the second. He did not stir, nor make any signs of moving or improving; his condition remained the same, but Les Amis did not lose hope. If the doctors told them that it was perfectly normal for Grantaire to still be unconscious, then they would not panic. Of course, the worry that Grantaire would not wake up at all was omnipresent, but it was a thought that had been pushed aside, hidden away and put on a shelf as if it did not exist. 

Enjolras was the only one who seemed to be planning for what would happen when Grantaire woke up; everyone else was merely fixated on waiting, but Enjolras was discontented by inactivity. The rest of Les Amis were surprised by Enjolras' dedication to planning for Grantaire's recovery, and his dedication to the raven haired man's bedside, but Enjolras found that he could not leave. He looked at Grantaire, connected to all those machines, and regretted denying his feelings for the other man for so long.

One afternoon, he sat with leaflets sprawled out across his lap while he sat in the chair beside Grantaire’s bed. Across from him, Joly sat with his nose buried in a textbook, a frown on his forehead as he examined something on the page. Next to him, Jehan scribbled incessantly in a notebook; most likely writing dark poetry, for he had not written anything positive since the day of the accident. Enjolras tried to focus on the information in his leaflets; factual sheets that the hospital had provided for him, but he found that he struggled to understand the terminology used. 

“Joly?” Enjolras inquired to the man on the opposite side of the bed. He spared a look to Grantaire as he spoke, observing how the cynic’s face was mostly free of the cuts and bruises that had been caused in the crash. “I was wondering if you’d help me. I was just reading these—“ he held up his leaflets as proof. Then, “—but I don’t understand them. I was wondering if you could tell me about brain damage in simpler terms.” 

This caught Jehan’s attention, and the poet stopped scribbling in his notebook to watch Joly also, holding his place in the book with his pencil. 

“Oh, uhm, of course,” Joly fumbled, closing his textbook and setting it on the ground by his feet. He scratched his head, trying to recall the numerous lectures he had attended that studied patients with brain damage. He cleared his throat, “Well, it could cause a physical problem, which in all honesty is the more favourable of the two, if you ask me. He could have difficulty balancing or stretching his limbs, but physiotherapy could help him learn to walk again. His co-ordination could be thrown off, or one side of his body could be weaker than the other, if not completely paralysed. It all depends on the part of his brain that has suffered the damage really. If anything is damaged in the sensory cortex he could simply lose his sense of taste and smell, but even then it is possibly that these could return over time. He could lose some of his sight, or he could lose the ability to speak properly. He’d probably speak very slowly and quietly, and he’d slur his words terribly if this happened, but it’s not a permanent problem if he worked to overcome it. His speech would never return to normal, but he’d be able to improve it greatly.”

“But he’d still be the same, Grantaire?” Jehan questioned, relaxing a little at the thought. He’d taken care of Grantaire all these years to a certain degree, and he would do it now too even if it meant pushing him around in a wheelchair. “If he gets brain damage he’ll just be affected with how he walks and talks?”

Joly shook his head quickly, “No, no, not at all. If it were physical, he would still be the same Grantaire mentally, but there’s a chance that he’ll be mentally damaged. There’s a slight chance that he could just be like this for a long life, possibly for the rest of his life. He could be in a prolonged vegetative state. If he wakes up, there’s a chance he won’t be the same man at all; there have been cases where patients have suffered a head injury and it has caused their mentality to be stuck as that of a child, or—.” 

“Stop it,” Jehan hissed, his face suddenly very pale and his eyes wide. “I don’t want to hear anymore. I know we need to be prepared but just… stop it. It won’t come to that.” 

Enjolras grabbed the poet’s hand, suddenly feeling incredibly guilty for bringing up such a sensitive subject in a casual manner around Jehan. It was clear to everyone that Jehan wasn’t coping well; whether it was due to the fact that he had been there that night, or because he was closer to Grantaire than anybody else, no one knew, but nor did they speculate. They would not admit it, because the fact made them feel incredibly guilty, but Jehan’s sadness made them uncomfortable and unsure; Jehan had never been so sad before, it was alien to the blond poet and all those around him.

“I’m sorry, Jehan.” Enjolras whispered; he was hurting and desperate for Grantaire to wake up too, and even though it helped him to cope by making sure he was thoroughly prepared, it didn’t mean Jehan did. “It was thoughtless of me to bring it up, I’m sorry.”

Jehan smiled at him, and the grimace made the blond revolutionary shiver. It was not a smile that one would generally associate with Jehan; the expression was cold and vacant, more sympathetic than happy. He squeezed Enjolras’ hand and said, “Do not apologise to me, this is how you show that you care. I may be missing my brother right now, but you, Enjolras, when you look at him you look as if you are missing the love of your life.” 

Enjolras’ jaw dropped; he certainly had not admitted his feelings to anyone, considering he had only just allowed himself to acknowledge his feelings. He had feelings for Grantaire that were entirely unfamiliar to him; feelings that he ached to share with Grantaire, if only the other man would wake up.

“You see,” Jehan whispered, leaning in so close that his breath tickled Enjolras’ neck. “Grantaire might have thought that you hated him, but I know differently.”


	3. What If I Can't Forget You?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was incredibly hard to be unhappy that Christmas, when everyone congregated together and exchanged happy stories about the year that had just passed. To an outsider, it would have almost looked as if Les Amis had forgotten about their friend who lay comatose in hospital, as they sat around Combeferre’s dining room table on mismatched chairs, eating a meal that was surprisingly nice to say that it had been prepared by Bahorel.

“It’s a miracle, you know?” Enjolras grinned, tightening the grip he had around Grantaire’s waist and cupping his cheek with the other hand. He kissed Grantaire’s forehead tenderly before continuing, “You waking up like that with no brain damage at all. The doctors told us it was practically impossible, but you did it. You’re amazing.”

“Impossibility is my speciality, it seems.” Grantaire smirked and rolled his eyes, and Enjolras did his best not to think of how much he’d missed the sarcastic tone to Grantaire’s voice. 

The blond grinned in return, and leaned in to place a kiss to Grantaire’s lips. He would never tire of this; never tire of being close to Grantaire after living without him for so long. He sighed contently, leaning his forehead against the other’s and attempting to maintain steady eye contact, “Never leave me again. Please, promise?” 

“How could I ever leave you, dearest Apollo?” Grantaire whispered, removing his arm from around Enjolras’ shoulder and taking a step away. The midnight haired man cocked his head to the side as if he were truly concerned, a frown knitting his eyebrows together slightly, and Enjolras was just about to ask him what was the matter when he opened his mouth to speak again, shaking his head slightly, “how could I leave you, when I never came back to you in the first place? Come now, don’t be foolish.”

It’s Enjolras’ turn to frown, because he didn’t understand what Grantaire was saying, and for some God forbidden reason, he couldn’t even find it within himself to open his mouth and ask what his new found lover was talking about. He took a step forward, towards Grantaire, and reached out with his left hand, his fingertips searching for some form of contact; anything, just to prove that Grantaire was there, that he did come back and was just being foolish when he claimed that he hadn’t. But when Enjolras’ fingers wrapped around Grantaire’s wrist, his hand clenched into a tight, surprised fist and he let out a shocked squeal. He looked up, just to see if had Grantaire taken a step backwards at the last minute without him noticing, but Enjolras was alone; Grantaire wasn’t there anymore, and after a frantic moment looking around the lounge, Enjolras realised he never was. 

Enjolras’ eyes snapped open in real life, revealing nothing but the darkness of his bedroom. He sat up bolt right, his eyes raking around the room for some sign that would explain what he had just seen—he did not yet realise it was a dream, for it had felt so real when he imagined that his arm was around Grantaire’s waist. He looked to his side, half expecting Grantaire to be in bed beside him, but found nothing but a mangled mess of sheets. 

He groaned and let his head fall into his hands, mentally instructing himself not to cry. Dreams of Grantaire occurred every now and then, but they had never been so vivid before; Enjolras had never truly believed that Grantaire was with him, that he was awake. He usually woke in the morning with a slightly heavier heart, but that was about it. This dream—he did not refer to it as a nightmare, as the scene had been far too sweet for it to frighten him—was unlike anything he had ever experienced before. It had been so real; he could swear that he still felt the weight of the other man’s arm around his shoulder, the fire of touch still lingered on his fingertips. 

He cursed under his breath and clambered out of bed, heading towards the shower. He checked the time on his phone as he did so, and upon realising that it was six thirty, mumbled sarcastically, “what a great Christmas present.” 

++++++++

Christmas day was spent at Combeferre’s apartment, and, rather surprisingly to all, it was a fairly merry day; even Jehan spent the day grinning widely, which was the happiest anyone had seen him since the accident, which was almost two and a half months ago. Les Amis hadn’t gathered together as a whole since that night, and it had been even longer since they celebrated together, so the mood was almost giddy when they all arrived to the law student’s apartment. They sat around Combeferre’s lounge, while Bahorel took over the kitchen to cook dinner, and they passed around finely wrapped presents. For the most part, the presents were almost predictable; Jehan was given five books by his favourite poets, two of which he was sure he already possessed but was thankful for anyway; Enjolras got a variety of historical novels, and Joly, as a joke, was given a bottle of watermelon scented hand sanitizer. Jehan gave the sweetest present, and of course it was to Courfeyrac; two plane tickets to Helsinki, because he knew that Courfeyrac was a lover of the snow, and London had had a very poor amount this year. 

It was incredibly hard to be unhappy that Christmas, when everyone congregated together and exchanged happy stories about the year that had just passed. To an outsider, it would have almost looked as if Les Amis had forgotten about their friend who lay comatose in hospital, as they sat around Combeferre’s dining room table on mismatched chairs, eating a meal that was surprisingly nice to say that it had been prepared by Bahorel. No one mentioned the raven haired man, although there was a tense vibe that situated in the room all throughout the day that everyone did their best to ignore. The past two and a half months had been hell for everybody; they sat by Grantaire’s bedside in turn and watched over him, prayed for him to wake up before they went to bed at night, but were given no relief. One day of happiness, Feuilly thought, was not too much to ask for, in the midst of such trial. Jehan almost felt guilty for being happy after spending so much time being miserable, but he didn’t say anything and carried on smiling. If he missed his best friend this Christmas, which he definitely did, as it was the first Christmas in sixteen years that he hadn’t seen him, then nobody could tell.

It didn’t take much to shatter that illusion that everyone was happy. Far too much wine had been passed around, and by six pm most of the group had reached a drunken, nostalgic state that led to a drunken mumbling of, “I wish Grantaire was here,” from Joly, who sighed deeply and leaned his head against Bossuet’s knee. On any normal day, a murmur of agreement would have rumbled through the room, but the wine in their systems added an over sensitive edge to the way they reacted. Had it not been Christmas, it wouldn’t have matter. 

As soon as the cynic’s name was mentioned, the smile vanished from Jehan’s face, and his expression dropped completely into a bitter mask of sadness. Enjolras opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again instantly when he realised that there was nothing he could say. Jehan got up from where he had been positioned in Courfeyrac’s lap, and half marched, half ran out of the room, slamming the bathroom door behind himself. A minute or two later, quiet sniffles could be heard coming from behind said door. He felt guilty for having fun when Grantaire was in hospital; he had been able to ignore it when everyone was ignoring the fact that they were missing someone, but now that someone had brought him up directly, Jehan could not deny his guilt. 

“Great.” Courfeyrac hissed bitterly after him, shooting angry daggers towards Joly. Joly, for his part, looked incredibly guilty for what he had just said, and would not meet the brunette’s eyes. Courfeyrac just got up out of Combeferre’s arm chair and went to follow Jehan, stopping only to say to Joly, “Thanks. He couldn’t just have on day without being reminded that his best friend is in a fucking coma? I haven’t seen him smile like that for months. Thanks a lot.” 

Joly looked as if he was going to cry, because Courfeyrac only ever got angry when someone upset Jehan, and that had been the last of his intentions. So, he sat there, looking at his lap, and shook his head whenever Bossuet whispered in his ear that it wasn’t his fault at all and it had just been a poor choice of words. The sad look that had taken over Joly’s face rearranged Bossuet’s features into an angry grimace, and he looked towards the bathroom every couple of minutes, as if he was considering going and yelling at Courfeyrac for making his boyfriend unhappy on Christmas. By that point, the happiness that had blanketed the group had disappeared, and everyone sat in their respective seats feeling far too awkward to say anything to anyone. 

No one much felt like celebrating after that. Joly and Bossuet excused themselves after about ten minutes, and thanked Combeferre for having them over; no one mentioned the sad slump to Joly’s shoulder as they walked out. Feuilly, as soon as the door closed again, attempted to lighten everybody’s spirits by suggesting they play a drinking game; the only agreements he received were half hearted, but most of those who remained in the room stood to move through to the dining room to indulge him.

Enjolras grabbed Combeferre’s arm as he was about to disappear into the other room, and said, “I’m going to get going. See if I can still make visiting hours. Text me when Jehan stops crying?” 

Combeferre smiled and nodded, “Of course. And tell Grantaire merry Christmas from me.” 

Enjolras nodded and said goodbye, slipping out of the door without another word. The idea to talk to Grantaire had been Joly’s, following a medical lecture he attended that said conversation stimulated the brain. Of course Enjolras thought it was foolish, and at first he had flat out refused to say anything to a party that he doubted could even hear him, let alone respond. That didn’t stop anyone else from conversing with him; Marius had spent days talking about one of the nurses, a blonde girl named Cosette who had agreed to go on a date with him, until Bahorel had jokingly told him that Grantaire would never wake up if he didn’t shut up. Jehan read poetry that no one really understood, and Combeferre read him whatever he found interesting in the newspaper when he visited. 

It didn’t take long for Enjolras to get on board with the whole talking to Grantaire thing, even if he did think it was a bit of a useless activity. He never did it when anyone was around, but he liked to pretend that Grantaire could hear him and it somehow made him a little happier. 

Enjolras drove towards the hospital a little too quickly, thankful for the fact that everyone was home for Christmas, and hence left the roads empty and free of traffic. He managed to park relatively close to the hospital doors, and after a quick look at his watch, he concluded that this was because he was cutting it rather fine, and would only be able to stay for around ten minutes, if he was lucky. He headed up to the ICU, mentally noting that he hated how familiar he had become with the route over the last couple of months, and only stopped to nod politely at Cosette, Grantaire’s nurse. 

“I didn’t think you’d be coming today,” Cosette smiled from her seat.

Enjolras shrugged, “You know how Christmas is, but I’m here. I couldn’t have him having no visitors at all on Christmas Day.” 

Cosette nodded understandingly and focused her eyes back onto the computer monitor before her, “Well—since its Christmas—if you want to stay till seven thirty, I won’t tell anyone that I saw you.” 

Enjolras grinned and thanked her, then carried on towards Grantaire’s room. When he arrived, he shrugged out of his jacket and slung it over the back of his chair, and it made him slightly uncomfortable to think about how accustomed he had become to the hospital; he could probably recite nearly every detail about the room Grantaire had been in for the last couple of months if he tried. 

“Merry Christmas, R.” The blond said softly as he leaned over the comatose man to kiss him on the forehead, as he always did when he visited Grantaire on his own. Enjolras sighed and sunk down into the chair beside the bed, taking Grantaire’s hand into his own, playing idly with his fingers, “Combeferre passes on the same sentiments. I must admit, I thought that you’d be awake by now. You’ve never been a particular fan of Christmas, I know that, but I have a feeling that you would have enjoyed yourself. It was hardly the same without you there to spill the wine all over Combeferre’s table cloth, but I suppose it was a pleasant day. Bahorel almost burned the entire dinner when he went out to buy Feuilly’s cigarettes and forgot to set us a timer.” 

“Grantaire, I’m starting to lose hope that you’ll ever wake up.” Enjolras confessed quietly, nibbling on the corner of his lip nervously. “It’s been two months and the doctors still have no idea when you’re going to wake up. I fear that I’ll never see Jehan smile without his eyes betraying his sadness ever again; I fear that a day will not go by when I don’t have nightmares where you taunt me terribly.”

Enjolras shook his head and fell into a state of silence, choosing to survey Grantaire’s appearance rather than speak, making mental comparisons to the man who lay before him now, and the man he had seen in the same bed two month prior. His face had healed completely, free now from those awful cuts and bruises that had plagued his pale flesh when the accident had occurred; they were but bitter memories now, the only reminder that they were ever there a small scar that cut through Grantaire’s right eyebrow. His arm had long since been freed from the white plaster that had reset the bone, and the metal rods that had supported his leg had been exchanged for a soft leg brace. By all means, Grantaire should look like he was sleeping, but the tubes and IVs that he was hooked up to murdered any illusion that the man was merely in slumber. 

Enjolras was still staring at Grantaire’s face when Cosette came into to turn him out at seven thirty, and the blond left feeling a little more defeated than he had when he woke up that morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said this chapter would be better than the last but I LIED. Anyways, I hope you like it. Grantaire's been in a coma for two and a half months and missed Christmas.
> 
> Feedback on this would be wonderful. Is it time for R to wake up yet?


	4. You Don't Know/I Am The One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He couldn't help but feel guilty for the way the blonde’s face dropped as if his world had just imploded.

Jehan woke up on New Year’s Day with a pounding headache, which was the by-product of a hideous hangover that he supposed he really did deserve after how much he drank the night before.

It was a tradition, of sorts, for Les Amis to gather together at Courfeyrac’s apartment to welcome in the New Year, and Bahorel always provided copious amounts of alcohol. Jehan, as a general rule, was not much of a drinker. He limited himself to the odd glass of wine throughout the year, partly because he thought it was a romantic drink, and partly because he liked the way it stained his lips a deep red. Grantaire could drink enough for the both of them anyway, but Jehan doubted that was a valid excuse for abstaining. New Year’s Eve was his yearly exception; on New Year’s Eve he matched every drink that Courfeyrac threw back, and had done for three years now, even though the brunette drank more throughout the year and could handle his drinks in a way that Jehan would never be able to. Without fail he regretted it the morning after every single year, but Jehan liked tradition, so he drank his own weight in alcohol every year even if he did worry his head would implode the morning after.

This year, his memory of New Year’s Eve disappeared somewhere between playing beer pong with Feuilly (an activity Enjolras insisted they should have abandoned years ago) and his third round of tequila shots with Joly, who abandoned his fear of drinking in excess for the night. Jehan couldn’t recall much of the night after that. Enjolras had, as every year, remained stone cold sober, claiming that someone had to be responsible in case events took a turn for the worse. 

As always, now that he was awake, Jehan regretted drinking so much and was reminded of why he refrained from drinking throughout the year. He vowed, as he always did, not to drink so much next year, even though he knew that he would, because it was tradition and he did not break tradition. Jehan groped around on his bedside table, searching for his phone, which was ringing obnoxiously and was the only reason he was currently conscious; he was eager to tell whoever was causing the horrific noise to go away and call again later when his head wasn’t pounding. 

“Hello?” He rasped, rubbing his temple with his free hand. He could hear Courfeyrac grumbling behind him, complaining about the sudden noise and shushed him gently.

“Mr Prouvaire?” Jehan grunted in response, and although he recognised the woman on the other end of the line to be Cosette, he didn’t understand the connotations there. He nuzzled into his pillow as the nurse continued, “This is a call from the intensive care unit here at the Northern General Hospital. We have you down as the emergence contact for one of our patients, Mr Grantaire—“ At this Jehan sat up straight, his eyes snapping open. The movement dragged the duvet off of Courfeyrac slightly, who whined loudly in protest, but Jehan was too busy listening to what the woman was saying about Grantaire, “—We’re just calling to let you know that your friend is waking up.”

“Oh thank God, thank you.” Jehan practically squealed, his hangover all but forgotten in his sudden burst of elation, as he hung up the phone and turned to pounce on Courfeyrac. He nudged at Courfeyrac’s shoulders with gentle slaps, trying to gain his full attention. “Courfeyrac, wake the hell up!” 

At this, the brunette rolled onto his back with an exasperated groan, throwing one arm over his eyes. “Jehan, you know I love you, but I am hung over as hell and unless my apartment is on fire, I’m not waking up yet.” 

Jehan let out an annoyed huff and clambered out of the bed, well trained in the art of getting a stubborn Courfeyrac out of bed. He grabbed a handful of the duvet and tugged it onto the floor, exposing Courfeyrac’s body to the cold, then yanked the curtains open, revealing the dazzling winter’s sunlight. Courfeyrac removed the arm from over his eyes with a hiss so that he could glare at the poet, who was practically beaming as he climbed back onto the bed, “That was the hospital on the phone, Grantaire’s waking up! We have to go now! Get up and get ready, I’m going to go text Enjolras to meet us there!” 

And then Jehan was gone, running from the room to the bathroom, texting as he did so. 

To Enjolras: Hospital called. R’s waking up. Meet me and Courf there in an hour!

He pressed send and brushed his teeth in a hurry, using the other hand to smooth down his long hair, which was poking out of his braid in random places, but he didn’t have time to redo it until he was in the car with nothing else to do. He washed his face in the same haste, his mind an excited whirl, then rushed out to the bedroom. He traded places with Courfeyrac, who he was surprised to see up and dressed, and dressed himself in the first items of clothing he found, half of which ended up belonging to Courfeyrac, barring a lilac oversized jumper that was covered in flowers. 

They were in the car not five minutes later, Courfeyrac grumbling from behind the wheel that he hadn’t even had his daily cup of coffee or an asprin. Jehan just rolled his eyes and worked on fixing the mess that was his hair, unable to keep the grin off of his face; three months, and Grantaire was finally awake, just in time to see the new year in too. Jehan was thrilled; he couldn’t wait to sit and talk to his friend again. They were almost the hospital when the poet felt his phone buzz, and he saw that he had a text from Enjolras. 

From Enjolras: Shit! I didn’t have my phone on me. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Does everybody know?

To Enjolras: No, just you. Courfeyrac will call everyone when we know what’s going on.

Jehan slid his phone back into his pocket as Courfeyrac parked the car, and he was climbing out of the door as soon as they keys were out of the ignition. He slid his hand into the brunette’s, who in turn gave him a very serious look and whispered gently, “I know you’re happy right now, but you’ve got to be prepared for some side effects. Joly warned us.” 

Jehan did not want to think about it; he was not ignorant about the risk of brain damage, and should the occasion arise, he would deal with it through whatever means he had to. But he wanted to remain optimistic; he wanted to believe that Grantaire would be okay, just because it was Grantaire. He spotted Cosette then, and dragged Courfeyrac over to her, demanding answers instantly, “how is he?”

“He’s very confused at the moment, but that’s to be expected with all the medication he’s on.” Cosette informed with a warm smile. Then, “He hasn’t said anything of substance yet, he was still coming round when we last checked on him, but that’s not uncommon. We’ll be running some tests on him later just to make sure that he’s okay. You can go through now, if you’d like.” 

Jehan thanked her and nodded, leading Courfeyrac away from the nurse’s station and over to Grantaire’s room. Courfeyrac remained outside for a moment, stating that he wanted to give Jehan a little time to himself to reunite with his best friend, and would be right outside the door when he was ready. Jehan hugged him tightly, and then entered the room. He was nervous, horribly so, terrified now that his friend was awake. He didn’t know what he was supposed to say, didn’t know if Grantaire would remember the accident or understand why he was in hospital. It didn’t matter; he entered the room regardless and grinned at his friend. 

Grantaire, for his part, just looked at Jehan as if he were an alien, confused by his eager grin. The stared at each other for a moment, and then Grantaire opened his mouth and, in an incredibly scratchy voice, said, “You look like you raided my friend Jehan’s closet.”

Jehan’s heart dropped instantly, and the smile was gone from his face, “What?” 

“Your jumper,” Grantaire confirmed with a short nod of his head, observing the man before him with tired, half lidded eyes. “It’s flowery. Jehan wears a lot of things with floral prints. Do you know where he is? I keep thinking he’ll turn up but he hasn’t yet. Does he even know I’m here? He'd probably want to know.” 

“Are you serious?” Jehan asked quietly, scrubbing a hand across his forehead. He gulped when Grantaire nodded and frowned in confusion, then went to sit in the seat beside his bed. He felt sick; he didn’t understand what was going on, and he wished Courfeyrac was by his side. “R… Grantaire. I, uhm…I don't know what you're talking about; I am Jehan. You don’t remember me?” 

“No you’re not. Jehan’s a fifteen year old, and you’re certainly not fifteen.” Grantaire scoffed weakly, although he looked entirely too tired to be having this conversation and Jehan almost felt guilty for bringing it up. But he had to; it had been three months, and he had to know what he was dealing with now. Grantaire cocked his head to the side, frowning in confusion, “Actually, you do look a little like him, but he’s fifteen and you're not.”

The poet took a deep breath and bit his lip, asking a question that would confirm his suspicions, “what’s the last thing you remember?”

“Why does that matter?” Grantaire rolled his eyes and shook his head but Jehan just stared at him, a serious expression on his face so the cynic sighed, “Erm, me and Jehan were sat on his roof smoking my dad’s cigarettes.”

Jehan barely remembered that day; it was a hazy memory, almost six years old now. From what he could remember, they had been fifteen, and Grantaire had seen a pack of his dad’s cigarette’s lying on the kitchen side and snagged them without a second thought. If Jehan remembered correctly, this was around the time when Grantaire began experimenting in the more rebellious things that Jehan hadn’t cared for. Grantaire had let himself in the backdoor, as he often did when Jehan’s parents were at work, and burst into Jehan’s room with an ear splitting grin on his face. Jehan had allowed himself to be pulled onto the roof, and had allowed Grantaire to shove a cigarette between his lips, because whatever Grantaire wanted to try, Jehan had always tried too. They had both coughed horribly, but that didn’t stop them from sitting up there on the roof for hours until Jehan’s parents arrived home. Grantaire had smoked the rest of the cigarettes in the pack, while Jehan politely declined and watched his friend with a slight smile on his face. 

Nothing stood out to Jehan about that day; it had been perfectly ordinary, one of many. Jehan couldn’t remember what they’d talked about, or if it was before or after Grantaire had taken to drinking whiskey for breakfast. He didn’t understand why that was the last thing Grantaire could remember when it was so utterly insignificant, and he certainly didn’t understand what had happened to the last six years of his memory. Jehan excused himself for a minute with a polite smile. He poked his head out of the door, and upon seeing Courfeyrac, rushed over to him. 

++++

“Grantaire,” the cynic nodded, looking nervously between Jehan and the doctor he had dragged back into the room with him. Another man, with coppery curls stood by the door, but Grantaire had no idea who he was; he presumed he was just another doctor, although he did not look the part. The doctor cleared his throat and continued, “I just need you to answer a couple of questions for me, if that’s okay. Nothing to worry about. Can you tell me your full name?”

“Zacharie Grantaire.” He answered automatically, cringing at his first name, which not even his own mother called him. 

The doctor nodded, a polite smile on his face, “That’s good. Uhm… and your hometown?” 

“I was born in Doncaster,” Grantaire recited, then added, “But we moved to Manchester when I was four.”

His answer seemed to please the man, although he couldn’t figure out what he was possibly doing right by reciting a couple of facts. The doctor opened his mouth to continue, “What year is it?”

“What on earth kind of stupid question is that?” Grantaire demanded with a harsh roll of his eyes, becoming increasingly frustrated with the doctor. Not-Jehan (he had decided to call him Not-Jehan, as he didn’t know the man’s real name yet) chuckled at his tone, but the blond carried on staring at him intently, as if the answer was incredibly important, so he sighed and said, “2007, maybe?”

Even as he said it, Grantaire knew that he was wrong. He had been fifteen in 2007, and although his last memory insinuated that he was fifteen, he felt my older than that now. His body looked older, maybe nineteen or twenty. He couldn’t put his finger of the exact age, but he knew that neither his body nor his mind felt fifteen; his mentality certainly was not that of a fifteen year old, he was sure. He looked around the room, his blue eyes probing and tired, and Not-Jehan’s expression confirmed his suspicion that he was wrong. The doctor looked at him, a forced smile on his thin lips, and told him not to worry before filing out of the room. 

Grantaire was confused, terribly so, and that confusion was increased by the way Not-Jehan was looking at him. In all honesty, he had been confused from the very second that Jehan/Not-Jehan had walked through the door; he looked obscenely like Jehan, with long blonde hair tied into a hurried braid, but Grantaire could not wrap his mind around the possibility that this man was Jehan. Jehan was a fifteen year old who had yet to hit his growth spurt and still had a layer of baby fat clinging to his stomach. The man who had visited him and was now stood before him did not fit that description at all; he was tall, incredibly slender, and was definitely not fifteen years old.

Yet Grantaire couldn’t help but feel as if Not-Jehan was telling him the truth. The doctors had told him when he woke up that he’d been in a car accident, and had suffered a horrible head injury; they said things in his head might have been throw off balance, and he should inform them instantly if he thought that something was wrong. He’d scoffed at them when they said that, because he’d always thought that he knew better than everybody else, but now he was starting to think that they were right. Something was definitely not right.

Not-Jehan was not fifteen years old, but clearly neither was he, and that was a concept that he could not understand. He looked up to the man he was beginning to think really was Jehan and said, “So… if you’re Jehan, are we still best friends?”

“Of course we are, we’re roommates,” Jehan assured with a soft smile. The poet’s eyes were sad and watery, and Grantaire had seen that expression so many times before, so he couldn’t really deny that the man before him was Jehan anymore. Jehan grabbed the man who was still stood against the wall and dragged him forward, already having figured out that Grantaire would not remember any of his friends, “This is Courfeyrac. You met him at college when you were seventeen.”

Grantaire smiled at him politely, cursing himself mentally for not being able to recall just how he and this Courfeyrac fellow met. He sighed deeply and closed his eyes, feeling all too tired to be trying to figure this all out; he just wanted to go back to sleep. He was too cold and his head hurt horribly, but he had to calm his mind down a little before sleep could even be considered as a possibility. He opened his eyes slightly, observing the way Courfeyrac was looking at him with concerned eyes, and then Jehan, who was biting his lip nervously. Grantaire tugged one side of his mouth up into a half-hearted smile and said, “I guess I have a lot to catch up on, then?”

Jehan chuckled dryly and opened his mouth to reply, but was cut short when a blond burst into the room, grinning manically. Grantaire didn’t know who the man was, but he thought he was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen; prettier even than Jehan, who Grantaire firmly believed was overly beautiful. The man walked over to him and grabbed his hand instantly, still grinning as he said, “You’re awake.” 

Gulping slightly to try and displace his sudden nerves, he gently removed his hand from the other man’s grasp and said, “Sorry but… do I, uhm… do I know you?” 

He couldn't help but feel guilty for the way the blonde’s face dropped as if his world had just imploded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeek I'm still not happy with the way this turned out, but here it is. Please let me know what you think! :)
> 
> Most people wanted Grantaire to finally wake up, so here he is!


	5. Hate to See Your Heart Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And then Grantaire was panicking, and he wanted nothing more than to get out of that damn uncomfortable bed and hide away somewhere so that no one would find him. As he cried, loud sobs emitting from his chest and scattering around the room, his chest tightened and soon, he was finding it hard to breathe. He gasped in attempt to regain his breath and scrubbed at his eyes, and he was pretty sure that he was going to die right then and there, because his head was spinning and damn—why couldn’t he breathe?

“I…uhm…” Enjolras spared a look to Jehan, who shook his head, a sympathetic grimace over taking his features. Grantaire was still staring at him, distress visible in his eyes yet his face composed. Conversations with Joly flashed through his head, and then he remembered the trainee doctor saying that it was a possibility that Grantaire wouldn’t remember anything at all if he were to wake up. The thought of it made Enjolras’ heart ache, but the reality of it, or at least his assumed reality of it, made his heart tear. He cleared his throat, “Yes, sorry. We’re friends, my name is Enjolras.”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire nodded and closed his eyes, lifting one hand up to pinch at the bridge of his nose. Enjolras hovered; he didn’t know if it would be appropriate to try and comfort his friend or if he should just sit there and wait for him to speak. After looking at Jehan, he sided with the latter. After a moment, Grantaire opened his eyes again and glared at the wall, not meeting anyone’s eyes. He spoke in a tight voice, “I’m sorry to be rude but… would you guys mind leaving? I’m really tired and I think I need to sleep…”

“Of course,” Enjolras spoke for everybody, as he had a habit of doing. He stood up, resisted the urge to kiss Grantaire on the forehead as he had been doing while the other man had been sleeping, and then retreated to Jehan and Courfeyrac’s side. Grantaire had asked them to leave, which probably hurt Enjolras a little more than being forgotten did. Albeit, he did ask them to leave so that he could sleep, but it was the cold tone in which he said it that struck Enjolras. It was the distant look in his eyes as he refused to look at anyone in the room, not even Jehan, that made Enjolras feel helpless and a little lost. He genuinely believed that he was a little bit in love with this man, yet Grantaire couldn’t even remember who he was, and wouldn’t even look at him. He found it difficult to be optimistic about the situation when he looked at it through that perspective. 

Jehan bounced over to his friend and kissed him on the cheek, then smiled down at him as he said, “we’ll be down in the cafeteria for a bit. Tell Cosette if you need us and she’ll fetch us for you.”

Grantaire smiled tightly and nodded, then watched them leave the room that made him feel claustrophobic. It struck him as he watched their retreating figures that these men were the only connections he had to his life; they knew everything about him, and yet he knew nothing at all about them. The realisation terrified him. It panicked him horribly to know that he didn’t know how many other people out there knew him and classed him as a friend, as these three men did. Grantaire didn’t even know where he lived, if he had a job or if he was in university. All he knew was that he was twenty one, and lived with Jehan, and that was only because the poet had told him. He was completely reliant on other people to be his memory, and that made the cynic increasingly uncomfortable. 

Before he knew it, he was crying. He thought about Jehan, and realised that he didn’t know him at all anymore. The man who had waltzed through his door with a dazzling grin on his face barely even looked like the Jehan he had known six years ago, he very much doubted that his interests would be the same. Grantaire doubted that his own interests were still the same; he supposed that he would have grown out of that hideous rebellious stage that he had been going through at fifteen, but it made his heart seize painfully to know that he had no way of knowing if he had or not without asking someone else.

And then Grantaire was panicking, and he wanted nothing more than to get out of that damn uncomfortable bed and hide away somewhere so that no one would find him. As he cried, loud sobs emitting from his chest and scattering around the room, his chest tightened and soon, he was finding it hard to breathe. He gasped in attempt to regain his breath and scrubbed at his eyes, and he was pretty sure that he was going to die right then and there, because his head was spinning and damn—why couldn’t he breathe?

Someone was rushing into the room then, and Grantaire couldn’t even make out who it was but he hoped to God that it wasn’t one of the men who had just been visiting him because it was bad enough that they knew his entire life when he didn’t, but he didn’t want to embarrass himself by having a crying fit in front of them too. 

“Grantaire, calm down!” A voice commanded, and Grantaire wanted to listen but he couldn’t. His chest was too tight and he couldn’t breathe unless he gasped, and even then it hurt, and he couldn’t stop the tears from flowing from his eyes because he was panicking about panicking now, and everything made his head spin horribly. He could hear the person talking and he thought it was a woman but, oh God, he couldn’t tell because everything sounded as if someone had stuffed cotton wool in his ears, and he wouldn’t be able to reply to whatever the woman was saying even if he wanted to because he was pretty sure he needed breath to be able to speak. 

He opened his eyes and through his tears saw the blonde nurse who had been there when he woke up, her mouth opening and closing but no sound coming out of it, and he watched her with watering eyes as she fiddled with the IV that was stuck in his hand. It wasn’t long after that that his limbs felt heavy, and his eyelids drooped so much that he couldn’t keep them open no matter how hard he tried, and consciousness was slipping from him but he couldn’t do anything about it. 

+++++

Grantaire had fevered dreams of his childhood; he recalled some of his happiest memories, and some that he hadn’t visited in years. He dreamt of the days before he met Jehan, where he would catch the strange boy from next door watching him but said nothing as he sat and observed the happier child in jealousy. He’d always been a little jealous of Jehan, especially before they were friends and all he could do was watch as Jehan’s mother cuddled him and his own mother ignored him. He dreamt about the times after he and Jehan had acquainted themselves, when they camped on the field behind their houses in a small tent because it was too hot and humid to sleep indoors, and it was more fun that way. 

He dreamt of things that were easier, and even in his sedated induced sleep, he was happy. In his dreams his memories were all that existed; nothing was complicated by car crashes or amnesia or three month long comas. His dreams were just his dreams, and he could just be Grantaire without any of the complications and drama that came along with it. 

Of course, he had to wake up. His body could only sleep so much, as the injection Cosette had given him to sedate him following his panic attack was quickly wearing off. And when he woke up, of course Jehan was going to be sat there. Grantaire was just happy that his other two visitors had disappeared; he didn’t want to deal with them until he had to—if ever. He didn’t even really want to deal with Jehan, because he was terrified that this man beside his bed wasn’t the same poet he’d known six years ago.

“Courfeyrac and Enjolras are outside, if you want to see them.” Jehan explained with a gentle smile, as if Grantaire had been curious. “Cosette said you’re not allowed more than one visitor until you decide you’re ready for that.”

“I don’t want to see them.” 

Jehan frowned and cocked his head to the side, and it almost made Grantaire smile when he thought about just how Jehan-ish the gesture was. He brought his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, his green eyes curious and probing, “Why not?” 

“I don’t even know them.” Grantaire explained bluntly. Then, as an afterthought, “I don’t really know you either. Not anymore. I don’t even know myself.”

Jehan didn’t even look offended by Grantaire’s dismissal, he just looked curious and Grantaire couldn’t help but wonder if he was wrong about not knowing Jehan anymore. His mannerisms were still the same, or so they seemed, and he still spoke in that tender voice that had reassured Grantaire so many times over the years. “Well… you know, I’m not really any different, and you haven’t changed all that much either. As for Courfeyrac and Enjolras, you could get to know them.”

“Were we close? Me and those guys?” asked Grantaire, more out of curiosity more than anything else. He hated having to ask people about himself, but Jehan did make him feel safe, as he always had. He trusted Jehan to be honest with him, simply because it was Jehan. Honesty was Jehan’s favourite policy. 

“You and Courfeyrac are. He spends a lot of time at our apartment cause he’s my boyfriend so he sleeps there most nights, and you guys just get on well, I guess. You’re both childish,” Jehan smirked and Grantaire nodded; he wasn’t surprised that Jehan had a boyfriend. The boy practically demanded love without even trying, and Grantaire wasn’t sure if there was anyone out there who could resist him. Grantaire cocked an eyebrow, encouraging the poet to continue. “You and Enjolras are… well, it’s complicated, I suppose.” 

“How so?”

“Well…” Jehan bit his lip and looked over his shoulder in consideration. Then, “Well. Since the day you met him, you were in love with him. You literally had eyes for no one else; you thought he was the most beautiful man you’d ever seen. Like Apollo was walking amongst the mortals, to quote you. You started calling him Apollo somewhere down the line, even though you knew it annoyed him.” 

“So…let me guess.” Grantaire sighed. “It’s complicated because he doesn’t love me in return? Why is he here now then?” 

“No, that’s not why it’s complicated” Jehan shook his head enthusiastically, considering his next words carefully. “You never exactly attempted to keep your feelings secret, but Enjolras is literally the most oblivious man on this entire planet so I don’t think he really noticed for a while. And then when he did, I don’t think he really wanted to admit that he felt the same, but then when we got in the accident he couldn’t really deny it anymore. He was here all the time, just waiting for you to wake up. He loves you terribly, but he’s far too proud to say anything now that you can’t even remember who he is.”

Grantaire wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He had a feeling his past self would be rejoicing, but when he thought about the blond man, he didn’t feel any shred of adoration. He could easily understand why he’d found the blond beautiful, because he wasn’t dumb enough to doubt that he was like piece of artwork. But could he feel a deeper connection? He didn’t think so. But then again, he had only spoken to the man for five minutes. 

“You know,” Jehan commented, twisting his braid in his hands as he spoke, “I think you’d really like them if you talked with them for a while. That goes for all of our friends, actually.” 

Grantaire blanched, “How many unnamed friends have I forgotten?”

“Well, you’ve met Courfeyrac and Enjolras. They’re both roommates with another guy called Combeferre. Then there’s Joly and Bossuet, who are also dating. Then Feuilly and Bahorel are roommates, so that leaves… Marius.” Jehan paused for a moment, counting on his fingers how many names he’d just recited. “So, that’s six that you haven’t met. I can call them and get them to come down, if you’d like. They all miss you.” 

Grantaire shook his head gently, his mind boggling at the fact that he had completely forgotten six people. He’d meet them at some point; he was sure, but not yet. “I don’t think I’m ready to meet that many new people. Just… give me a couple of days at least.” 

Jehan smiled kindly and nodded, just happy to hear the sound of his best friend’s voice once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this story is going downhill so much so just let me know what you guys think. I have better things planned for the next chapter with a little bit of a time skip (only a week or so but...) I'm more excited about the next chapter than this one.
> 
> I would have posted this yesterday but it was my birthday and my dog died so I wasn't online at all :(
> 
> Let me know what you think, guys! :)
> 
>  
> 
> ps I haven't checked this for mistakes or anything because I just wanted to update then get off again!


	6. Somone Else's Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “But you’re hurting,” Combeferre stated. Then, “And you miss him.” 
> 
> “Yes.” Enjolras nodded. He did miss Grantaire; he felt as though he was missing his shadow. He whispered, “Yes, I miss him terribly. I don’t know what I’ve done.”

Brain damage, Joly had explained to Jehan one night, was not a cut and paste condition, and that was why it took a while for the doctors to fully determine fully what was wrong with Grantaire, aside from the painfully obvious case of amnesia. Brain scans, according to Joly (who Jehan relied on for all medical information, even though the boy was still a student and only had limited knowledge) could only reveal so much. Time told the rest.

After a couple of days it became obvious that Grantaire’s mind was struggling to control the temperature of his body. He complained almost constantly about being cold and asked for extra blankets that seemed to have no effect, and it wasn’t until Courfeyrac thought to bring one of Jehan’s thick wool jumpers for Grantaire to wear that the raven haired man actually managed to warm up a little, although not completely. A few days after that, when Grantaire let Courfeyrac and Jehan visit him together for the first time, they found out that he’d damaged something in his left ear, and couldn’t hear through it properly, although this had nothing to do with his brain or the damage done to it. About half way through their visit Grantaire commented off handily that Courfeyrac, who was sat in Jehan’s usual seat on his right, talked a lot louder than Jehan, who he thought was rather quiet that day. There just so happened to be a doctor in the room at the time, who thought it was strange, and ran some tests that showed that Grantaire had lost part of the hearing in his left ear. It wouldn’t come back, but Grantaire doubted that he’d miss it.

There was nothing life threatening though, as Jehan and Enjolras had feared. There were things that caused him discomfort, but nothing that he couldn’t survive; his eyes were oversensitive to the light, and that caused him a near constant headache that throbbed behind his icy blue eyes, but there were painkillers he could take to help him deal with that. After the extent of his injuries, Jehan had been expecting a lot worse. 

After five days, the doctors decided that Grantaire had built his strength up enough to get out of bed so that they could determine the physical side effects of his injuries. They wheeled him down to one of the physiotherapy rooms that homed down on the bottom floor of the hospital, and the raven haired man had been so nervous because Jehan wasn’t by his side and he was scared. He confessed then that he didn’t think he’d be able to get up, because he couldn’t really feel the bottom half of his left leg. Apparently, this had been expected because of how badly the leg had been broken, and they supported him as he hobbled around the room, dragging his useless leg behind him. The movement, the doctors said, may or may not return, but they were confident that it would with enough practice. It was nothing that would keep him from walking, certainly; if the movement didn’t come back, he’d be able to walk with crutches or a cane. Grantaire vowed to work effortlessly to make sure this did not happen.

Grantaire’s memory remained very much the same, but after a week of having visits from no one other than Jehan and Courfeyrac (he’d asked Jehan to ask Enjolras to stay away for the time being, because he was a little scared of him), he decided he needed to see a fresh face and asked Jehan to bring a couple of their friends to reacquaint them. 

The first person he was reintroduced to was Marius, because Jehan thought he was probably the safest and cheeriest member of Les Amis. He walked through the door almost timidly, and Grantaire watched him with wide blue eyes, until the freckled man’s face erupted into a face splitting grin. Grantaire felt reassured by the smile, because there was something about Marius that seemed harmless, and he reminded Grantaire of a hyperactive puppy. He found himself smiling along with the scrawny man after not too long. Marius, he concluded, was easy to talk to, and a little simple for he seemed to get confused fairly easy, and Grantaire found himself enjoying the man’s company so he eventually inquired as to how they’d met. 

Marius chuckled as he said, “I’d just moved in with Courfeyrac and you walked into my room one night, drunk out of your mind and fell asleep on my floor.” 

Grantaire found himself laughing along, and when Marius left, he found himself hoping that the freckled youth would visit again soon. 

He took to Bahorel and Feuilly just as quickly, following an awkward moment when he asked them if they were a couple, and they both flushed bright red and shot down his suggestion, side stepping to put a little distance between themselves. Grantaire sat, almost enchanted by Bahorel’s extravagant stories about the bar fights he’d been in recently, explaining with a nonchalant flip of his hand that the hideous bruise around his eye was “nothing compared to previous battles.” Looking at the man, who had a soft flop of brown hair and tender eyes to match, Grantaire found it hard to believe, but he wasn’t going to question the man’s abilities aloud in case Bahorel felt it necessary to prove it. Feuilly talked about his job at a bakery down town and promised to bring along something nice for Grantaire to try next time he visited; at this, Bahorel grinned manically and Grantaire got the impression that Feuilly’s food was something to be desired. 

Courfeyrac brought Combeferre the following day while Jehan was at work, and it took the cynic a little more time to warm to the composed man than it had his other friends. Where Marius was eager and excited, Combeferre why shy and composed. Where Bahorel was chatty and full of life, Combeferre was quiet and allowed Grantaire to speak more than he was spoke to. The cynic wasn’t sure how to take it at first, when Combeferre just sat there, pushing his glasses up his nose every so often, and speaking in a soft voice. It took a while, but Grantaire did take to the man after an hour or so, when they both began to feel comfortable around each other and Combeferre began talking more. By the time he left, Grantaire decided that he liked Combeferre more than anyone else who had visited him so far; the man had a quiet aura that surrounded him and made Grantaire feel calm. He liked it. 

Joly and Bossuet were the last to visit him, and Grantaire found that he liked their company but did not much desire it. He liked them both, certainly, but it annoyed him terribly when the trainee doctor whispered into the taller man’s ear about germs and illnesses that one could catch in hospital wards, and he found Bossuet’s clumsiness to be horribly irritating. Mostly because it resulted in a jug of water being knocked over and soaking him and no one else, but Grantaire would not admit that he was holding a grudge over that. He hoped they’d grow on him over time. 

The only person he hadn’t spent any time with was Enjolras, and he had no intention of changing that fact any time soon. The man had feelings for him that Grantaire didn’t think he could return, and that made him feel uncomfortable. He did not think that he could love Enjolras as he had done in his life before the accident. So, he denied Jehan’s offers to bring Enjolras, and instead asked him to bring Combeferre; the shocked look on his best friend’s face told him that old Grantaire would have asked for someone else’s company.

He did not ask, but he had a feeling that the old Grantaire was a lot different to the man he was trying to be now.

+++++

“How’s Grantaire?” Enjolras asked off handily as he stared at the pages of his book; pretending, but not really reading the words written there. He was going crazy with worry; he just wanted to see if Grantaire was okay, but the raven haired man had banned him from visiting and Jehan wouldn’t tell him why. He was resorting to milking information from Combeferre, who had been visiting Grantaire every couple of days since being told that the cynic wanted to meet him again. To say that Enjolras was jealous would be an understatement, because Grantaire and Combeferre had never been close before, and from what he could tell, he was the only one who hadn’t been to visit Grantaire since he woke up. 

Combeferre looked up from his own book to look at Enjolras, his warm brown eyes full of sympathy. “He’s doing well. There’s been talk of him coming home in a week, depending on how much progress he makes in his physiotherapy sessions.” 

“Is he still struggling?” Enjolras finally looked away from his politics textbook, a frown burdening his forehead. He knew well that Grantaire was struggling to regain the movement of his leg, although he had assumed that it would be getting better based on the fact that Joly had told him Grantaire was having physiotherapy every day. He didn’t actually know, because Grantaire wouldn’t talk to him.

“Jehan says so,” Combeferre nodded, folding over the corner of his page to mark his place, then closed his book and set it down on the table. “They can handle pretty much everything at home, except for the walking, so he can’t be discharged until he improves a little. He can wear extra jumpers to stay warm, and the doctors already gave him a hearing aid to balance his hearing out. The headaches, I admit, are a bit concerning, but Joly says there’s probably some sort of medication he can be given to take the edge off.” 

Enjolras nodded and mumbled something along the lines of ‘I see’ before looking back to his book, trying to ignore the dull aching in his chest. He wanted to be able to help; he wanted to be able to support Grantaire with all that he was struggling with, and to hold his hand when he got stressed out, but the cynic just wouldn’t let him. Grantaire had never rejected him before; since the day they met, Grantaire had trailed him with an obscene level of adoration, and even though it had annoyed him at first, Enjolras had grown dependant on it. He was used to looking to the corner of the room and seeing piercing blue eyes trained on him. It was… strange to feel their absence. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

Enjolras shook his head and shrugged, “What is there to talk about?” 

“Grantaire. How you feel about the situation. Whatever you want.” Combeferre took the book from Enjolras hand and set it down on the table. “I can tell it’s bothering you. I know you better than most, remember.” 

Enjolras smiled; it was true. He and Combeferre were two of the same, and the other man simply had the ability to know when something was playing on Enjolras’ mind, no matter how much that fact sometimes annoyed the blond. He sighed deeply and shook his head, “I appreciate the offer, but there really isn’t anything to talk about. He doesn’t want me to see him, Jehan won’t tell me why. That’s all there is to it.” 

“But you’re hurting,” Combeferre stated. Then, “And you miss him.” 

“Yes.” Enjolras nodded. He did miss Grantaire; he hadn’t seen him in over a week, which was probably the longest he’d gone without seeing him since they met. He felt as though he was missing his shadow. He whispered, “Yes, I miss him terribly. I don’t know what I’ve done.”

Combeferre wrapped an arm around his friend’s shoulder and smiled at him sympathetically. Anyone else, and Enjolras would have shied away from the contact and the sympathy, but he knew there was no point pretending around Combeferre. They were wired the same; Combeferre could tell when Enjolras was hurting in the same way that the blond could tell when his friend was drowning in school work and needed something to take his mind off of it. 

Combeferre sighed, “You haven’t done anything, Enjolras. Grantaire is scared and confused. I think he… well he hasn’t said as much but, he knows that you love him and that he used to be in love with you, but he doesn’t understand it. He can’t even remember meeting you, yet you have these feelings for him that he can’t return yet, and it scares him. So, believe me, Enjolras. You haven’t done anything. Grantaire just needs time.”

Enjolras sighed and mumbled, “I don’t think he wants to get to know me again. He seems to want to know everyone other than me.”

“Why don’t you wait until he gets home,” Combeferre suggested. “And then stop by the apartment. Pretend you’re there to see Jehan or something and just ask him how he’s doing. Start off small, just reacquaint yourself whether he wants you to or not.” 

Enjolras loathed the idea of pretence, detested the concept of building a friendship with Grantaire if he had to trick the other man into it. But at the same time, he saw no other option. He itched to talk to his old friend, to hear him debate with harsh sarcasm once again and yet, Grantaire refused to see him. Enjolras did not feel quite like himself; he had never been such a man, to care about something so fickle as love, and yet it had taken over his entire life. He was consumed with the desire to be simply included in the man’s desire to rebuild his life, rather than banished and avoided like the plague. 

Maybe trickery was the only option he had left, if he ever wanted to find some peace of mind.


	7. Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras was not a person who cared about if people liked him or not, but after being adored by Grantaire for so long, and loving him in return for the past five months, it hurt to see that Grantaire so clearly disliked him. And Grantaire did dislike him; it was written all over his face and in his body language.

Four months and three weeks after the accident, Grantaire was finally discharged from the hospital, prescriptions and tablets tucked into Jehan’s pocket, appointments made to fit around Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s schedules, and Grantaire stumbled along with crutches tucked under his armpits. Jehan grinned widely all the way home, as he sat in the backseat of Courfeyrac’s red stationwagon, next to Grantaire with the dark haired man’s hand clasped tightly in his own as he bounced up and down in his seat giddily. For a while, Jehan had believed that the day would never come where Grantaire would be on his way home, healthy enough not to be hooked up to machines or require constant doctor supervision. He couldn’t be happier now that the day had arrived.

Grantaire was certainly happy to be leaving the hospital; the room he’d claimed as his own for the past five months was fully and tiring, the food in the cafeteria was far from satisfying, and he yearned for comfort and entertainment. He missed TV. He was, in all honesty, nervous to be going home. He couldn’t even remember moving to London for university when he was eighteen, and he certainly didn’t know his way around. He figured he’d be pretty much confined to his flat, although he concluded that as long as he had TV, a comfy couch and all the junkfood he could ever desire, he wouldn’t much mind. 

Luckily for Grantaire, who could barely walk more than ten meters before he had to take a break, his apartment was on the ground floor, directly beneath the one Bahorel shared with Feuilly. Jehan attempted to reassure him by telling him that Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Enjolras only lived a couple of streets away in the same building as Joly and Bossuet, and would be able to get here quick if he ever needed anything. 

“This is your room,” Jehan smiled gently as he waited for Grantaire to catch him up, and held the door open so that the cynic could step through. Jehan chuckled, “If you couldn’t tell, you’re still as much of a slob as you were at fifteen.” 

Grantaire smiled. He’d been a messy teenager, much to the dismay of his mother, and it made him happy to see that he was still just as messy, if not even more so; it gave him hope that he wasn’t a total stranger to himself. He glanced around, taking in the way he still tiled t-shirts up on the floor rather than folding them and putting them away, and he still left towels trailed across the ground, even though he could see that he had a hamper not two feet away from said towel. He looked at his desk, which was cluttered with paper and books and a laptop; he idly picked up one of the books and glanced at the cover; of course, he couldn’t’ remember reading it, but he thought that he might like to read them, just in case they helped him learn about the man he used to be. 

He put the book down and looked towards the corner, surprised at what he saw, “I paint?”

Jehan nodded as Grantaire gestured to an easel propped up in the corner, a blank canvas covering it. The poet stepped around him and grabbed a book off of the desk and holding it out. Grantaire took it curiously and flicked through it, his eyes skimming across sketches of landscapes and places he didn’t recognise, freezing when a portrait cropped up amongst the drawings of bridges and cathedrals. Grantaire shook his head and flicked to the next page, and the same person was there in the next picture, and the next, and the next, and Grantaire could recognise the figure easily. He looked to Jehan, “Enjolras?” 

“You draw him a lot,” Jehan chuckled, looking down at the page Grantaire was fixated up. In this picture, Enjolras was sat with Combeferre, his eyebrows knitted together as they discussed something that Jehan didn’t know, and Grantaire wouldn’t remember. Grantaire nodded and closed the book, then set it back down on his desk.

He preferred his work when it consisted of buildings. 

++++++

“Enjolras!” The blond was met by the grinning face of his poetic friend. Enjolras smiled nervously in return as Jehan stepped aside to grant him access to the flat. “The book you wanted is in my room, I’ll just go grab it. Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Tea would be great,” Enjolras, as a general rule, declined his friend’s offers when he visited them, knowing that he would be diverted from the task at hand, but this time, he was here for a secret purpose; he was on a mission. He didn’t even want the book that Jehan was loaning out to him, in fact he was pretty sure that he owned the very same book, and had it tucked away under his bed, covered in a layer of dust due to lack of interest. 

Jehan smiled and gestured towards the living room, indicating that Enjolras should go right in and make himself at home. Enjolras, in turn, nodded his appreciation and headed towards the small room that Jehan and Grantaire shared. He stepped into the warm room and grinned when he saw dark curls spilling over the edge of the couch’s armrest. A step forward, and Enjolras could see piercing blue eyes, unaware of his presence and focused on the TV screen, where some 90s TV show was playing. Another step forward and Enjolras could see the cynic’s pink lips, parted slightly. Grantaire was still wrapped up in watching whatever was on TV, completely unaware of the fact that Enjolras was stood there staring at him, so the blond decided to announce himself, “Hello.” 

Grantaire jumped in surprise and stiffened slightly when he heard the unfamiliar voice, and then twisted his head around so that he could determine just who it was that was visiting his home. Enjolras stood awkwardly in the doorway, nothing that by this point, he hadn’t seen Grantaire in almost a month, as he carefully observed the raven haired man’s face, watching for any negative reactions to his presence. If Grantaire had any feelings at all towards Enjolras’ presence, he didn’t show it, so the blond took it as a sign of acceptance and moved into the room, sitting in the armchair across from the couch that was occupied by the cynic.

“Hello,” Grantaire replied politely, averting his eyes back to the TV.

Enjolras cleared his throat, “So… how are you?”

“Cold,” Grantaire sighed, even though the room was at a perfectly warm temperature in Enjolras’ opinion, and his hands fisted into the blanket that was covering his body, as if he was trying to prove a point. He shook his head slightly, “I’m getting there.”

“Good.” Enjolras smiled, sinking back into the uncomfortable silence and wondered if Grantaire was just as uncomfortable as he was. 

He supposed so when Grantaire pursed his lips, cleared his throat and said, “I hate this show.”

“You always have,” Enjolras chuckled and smiled fondly, memories of Grantaire ranting his hatred towards the show flashing through his mind. The look he received in return was strange, almost a glare but not quite fierce enough to be threatening. Annoyed, certainly, although Enjolras wasn’t quite sure about what he’d done and didn’t have chance to ask why because Jehan bustled into the room and handed Enjolras his drink. He wiggled into the couch, his own drink in hand so that he was seated beneath Grantaire’s legs. 

Jehan slapped Grantaire’s thigh and gestured towards the coffee table, “You were supposed to take those an hour ago. Take them now. You’ll thank me when your leg stops hurting.” 

Grantaire rolled his eyes playfully and groaned then leaned forwards to swipe two pulls from the table. He swallowed them down with a small mouthful of water with a visible wince. Jehan patted his thigh and then picked up the remote to change the channel. Enjolras watched all of this over the brim of his cup, a slight swell of jealousy running through him at the casual air of their relationship. He pushed it aside when Grantaire began to speak, even if it wasn’t to him. “That reminds me, the hospital called and moved tomorrow’s appointment to one instead of four.”

“I have work until three, I was only just gonna be able to get you there for four,” Jehan winced and switched the TV off altogether. “And Courfeyrac’s out of town until Monday night, so he can’t drive you.”

“Combe—“ 

“Lecture on the other side of town,” Jehan cut in and shook his head, waving a dismissive hand. “He’d never make it here in time.” 

Grantaire frowned and opened his mouth, but Enjolras jumped at the opportunity that he hadn’t foreseen. “I could drive you. I don’t have class tomorrow.” It was a lie, but he figured no one would miss him if he missed one afternoon of classes.

Grantaire looked less than thrilled, but Jehan grinned and said, “That’d be great, right Grantaire? Problem solved!”

“Yeah.” Grantaire echoed, either unable or unwilling to hide the discontentment in his voice. “That’s great. Thanks.”

Enjolras pretended that he couldn’t hear the reluctance in Grantaire’s voice and downed the rest of his drink, satisfied that he’d made a little progress and could class his mission as a partial success. Jehan saw him to the door ten minutes later, a grabbed Enjolras’ elbow as he stepped through the door, speaking in a hushed tone, “I really appreciate you doing this for him. But just be careful not to tell him things about how he used to be; he gets annoyed if we tell him what he used to like and dislike. I think he wants to make his own decisions about things.”

Enjolras nodded and assured the man that he wouldn’t, and realised why Grantaire had looked so annoyed earlier. He made a mental note not to do it again; after all, he was attempting to build bridges, not demolish them. 

He was halfway down the street when he realised that Jehan never gave him the book.

+++++

Enjolras had been excited to spend some time alone with Grantaire, even if he was only taking the man to the hospital and back. In his mind, scenarios played out where he and Grantaire would reconnect, their friendship rekindled. Of course, the day was never going to go as Enjolras had planned, because his ideals were based around the man he had known Grantaire to be, and the new Grantaire was nothing like him at all. 

So, Enjolras had shown up ten minutes early, as he was known to do, and had knocked on Grantaire’s door with a smile. This was probably where the day stated to go downhill, even though it had only just begun. It took Grantaire a while to answer the door, in which time Enjolras’ smile slowly descended into a frown as he began to think that no one was home and Grantaire had found other means of getting to the hospital. But he did answer the door, with a frown painted clearly across his features. There was no hello, no apology for taking so long to get to the door, just a bitter, “you’re early.” 

Not to be discouraged, Enjolras replied with a simple shrug and a casual, “I’m always early.”

That made Grantaire scoff, but he told Enjolras to wait there while he grabbed some shoes. Five minutes later, they were heading out to the car and Enjolras helped the cynic lower himself into the passenger seat of his silver car; the old Grantaire would have been overjoyed at the contact, even Enjolras knew that, but this new version of Grantaire seemed to loathe it, and shrugged out of the golden haired man’s hands as soon as he was seated. Still, Enjolras told himself not to be discouraged. He was still practically a stranger in Grantaire’s mind; he had to give him time. 

After twenty minutes, Enjolras didn’t believe that even time would help matters. The cynic had fallen into a stony silence the second he’d sat down in the car, which in itself was completely discouraging because in the entirety of their friendship, Enjolras had never managed to get Grantaire to shut up. But now, Enjolras struggled to get two words out of the man, despite his multiple efforts to try and make conversation.

Enjolras was not a person who cared about if people liked him or not, but after being adored by Grantaire for so long, and openly loving him in return for the past five months, it hurt to see that Grantaire so clearly disliked him. And Grantaire did dislike him; it was written all over his face and in his body language. 

By the time Enjolras was dropping Grantaire back off at his home two hours later, following a rejected offer to go out for coffee, Enjolras lost all hope that his relationship with Grantaire could ever be salvaged. He pulled his keys out of the ignition and was going to open his door when a hand grabbed his forearm, holding him in place.

“I just… I wanted to say I appreciate your help today.” Grantaire started, his eyes wide and guarded in a way that Enjolras was not used to. Grantaire had always been good at hiding his emotions, but his efforts had always been betrayed by his eyes. “But… I… erm. God, I don’t know how to say this without sounding like a jerk. Uhm… I’d prefer it if you didn’t offer again. It’s just, well I don’t know what was going on with us before the accident, but I don’t know who you are anymore and I can’t return whatever feelings you might have for me.”

“We were friends,” Enjolras attempted to smooth the situation out, but even he could hear the whiny undertone to his voice. “We’re still friends.”

“But we’re not,” Grantaire shook his head and smiled sadly, looking a little guilty for what he was saying. He wet his lips and looked down before continuing, “I just don’t think we can be. I don’t know anything about you, Enjolras, but I think it’d be better that way. Jehan says that I used to love you, and that you love me too, but I just... I don't think that part of me is ever going to come back, and I think it would be fairer to tell you that now, if what Jehan says it true. I assume from what Jehan says that we’ll see each other from time to time with the rest of the group, but I think that should be it. For both of our sakes.”

When the cynic looked up again, his eyes were begging to be understood, and it took all the Enjolras had in him to swallow down the lump in his throat and nod. He got out of the car and helped Grantaire up the stairs and into his flat, in his mind telling himself that Grantaire would come around eventually. Once he was certain that Grantaire was okay, he went back out to his car, and if a few tears escaped on his way home, then no one was around to tell.

Still, he promised himself that he wouldn't give up. His Grantaire had to be in there somewhere, and he'd be damned if he didn't at least try to get him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeek don't hate me! 
> 
> Give me feedback on how you think this is going please! :D


	8. Falling Slowly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire closed the door before Enjolras could reply, and he was glad that Jehan was at Courfeyrac’s for the time being, because he couldn’t hold in the tears that were caused by the confusion Enjolras presented him with.

Ever since he got home from the hospital, Grantaire had taken to sleeping on the couch, wrapped in thick blankets that Jehan’s mum had knitted for them when they were both still young children; partly because he’d always liked to watch movies as he fell asleep and doing it now reminded him of the past he could still remember, and partly because the couch was situated next to the radiator, which meant that he could keep toasty warm. Grantaire liked sleeping on the couch instead of in his bed, and did so most nights. 

He was asleep on the couch one night, as he was most nights, when Jehan’s voice woke him up, and he couldn’t even process the stern manner in which he was speaking through his sleep induced state. Grantaire scrubbed at his eyes, trying to go back to sleep because whatever was wrong with Jehan had nothing to do with him, but he snapped into awareness when he heard Jehan in a hushed tone say, “Enjolras, you are not yourself tonight. Let me call Combeferre to take you home.” 

“No,” Enjolras protested, and Grantaire had enough experience with drunks to detect the slur in the blond man’s voice. He stiffened slightly and turned over so that his eyes were focused on the door; he hadn’t seen Enjolras for a week, since he had asked the politics student to stay away from him. He strained his ears, listening to what the drunken man was saying to his best friend, “Jehan, lovely, sweet Jehan… just let me talk to him. That’s all I want to do then I’ll go home.”

“He’s asleep, Enjolras.” The poet sighed, and Grantaire could just imagine the way his green eyes would cloud over in sorrow. Grantaire would even go so far as to bet that Jehan would, at some point, pull the drunk into a tight hug. “And you’re drunk, which isn’t like you at all. If you talk to him now you’ll only regret it in the morning.” 

“But I love him Jehan! And I know he loves me too, even if he doesn’t remember it.” 

At this, Grantaire rolled off of the couch, his blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders. He should be dealing with this problem himself, instead of letting Jehan usher him away. In a way, he felt that he had to at least hear Enjolras out, even if he knew that the man’s words would never change his mind. The amnesiac shuffled into the hallway silently; he could see Enjolras propping himself up in the doorway, his hand on Jehan’s shoulder. When the drunk finally spotted Grantaire over Jehan’s shoulder, his face lit up and he grinned, yelling, “Grantaire!”

“Go back to sleep,” Jehan looked over his shoulder and smiled gently. “I’m just going to call Combeferre and have him pick Enjolras up. I didn’t mean to disturb you.” 

Seeing Enjolras in this state, with his haired messed up and his eyes red rimmed and wild, made Grantaire feel a sort of sympathy for the man that he didn’t feel comfortable in experiencing. He felt guilty, almost, because he had a feeling that Enjolras was only in this state because of what he’d said that day in the car. And now he was looking at the cynic with eyes that begged, and Grantaire couldn’t find it within his heart to turn him away. 

“It’s fine, Jehan.” Grantaire tugged the blanket around his shoulders a little tighter, his eyes trained on Enjolras. “Why don’t you come wait in here, Enjolras? I’m sure Combeferre won’t be long and its warmer in the lounge.” 

Grantaire turned to walk back to his spot on the couch, holding onto the back of the couch to keep himself upright as he hobbled along. He heard Jehan sigh deeply from behind him and Enjolras noisily stumbled into the room as he sat down on the couch. Enjolras sat next to him, closer than what Grantaire would consider to be comfortable, but he wasn’t about to argue with a drunken man over personal space. He opened his mouth to speak, but Enjolras jumped in before he could. 

“We need to talk.” Enjolras reached out and seized Grantaire’s hand. The cynic considered telling Enjolras that he needed to go home and sober up, but he knew that whatever he said would fall upon deaf ears. So instead he nodded and Enjolras grinned, launching into a speech, “Look. I know you don’t want to talk to me, but we need to talk about this. I love you, really I do. I never told you that before but I swear, Grantaire, I love you so much. And you love me too, I know that you do. Don’t say you don’t. You used to tell me all the time.”

“I’m not the same person I used to be, Enjolras.” Grantaire sighed and ignored the way Enjolras linked their fingers together. “The person you loved—the person who was in love with you—he’s gone.”

“Go on a date with me,” Enjolras slurred as he shook his head and scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand, pretending that he hadn’t heard what Grantaire had just said. “Tomorrow night, go on a date with me. We’ll get dinner.” 

Grantaire most definitely wanted to say no. He didn’t want to go on a date that would lead Enjolras on (because he certainly didn’t have feelings for the man), and it would also make him uncomfortable in the process. He didn’t want to be around Enjolras at all, didn’t like the confusion his presence presented itself with in his mind. Enjolras was complicated; from what he’d heard, their history was complicated and Grantaire wanted nothing more than simplicity. Things in his mind were complicated enough now that he’d lost his memory; he’d do anything in his power to make the rest of his life as easy and as simple as it could be.

Grantaire wanted to say no, but he couldn’t. 

“I’ll get dinner with you,” He said slowly, watching as the blond man grinned in return. He held up a hand in warning, “But it’s not a date. Not at all so don’t get it in your head that it is. Just as friends, okay?”

He wasn’t sure what it was that made him say yes. A part of him wanted to get Enjolras off his back, and he hoped that if he went on a date with him, then Enjolras would leave him alone. But the other part of him saw that hopeless, devastated look in the blonde’s eyes, and he knew that he’d caused that look. Or, he at least suspected that he had, because the Enjolras that Jehan talked about looked nothing like the one who sat before him now. Grantaire wanted to get rid of that look, partly because he didn’t think it suited Enjolras’ pretty face, and partly because he felt guilty and responsible. Dinner, he figured, wouldn’t do too much damage. 

Enjolras smiled so wide that Grantaire could swear the expression stretched out to meet both ears, and he nodded eagerly, blond curls falling into his eyes and partially obscuring his vision. 

“I’m not promising anything, Enjolras.” Grantaire warned, raising one of his dark eyebrows. “I’m not saying we’re going to be friends again, and we’re definitely not going to be anything more. If it doesn’t work out tomorrow night, you have to promise me that you’ll leave me alone. No more turning up at my apartment in the middle of the night, too drunk to even walk in a straight line. Promise?”

“I promise,” Enjolras breathed, his eyes suddenly incredibly sober.

Grantaire pursed his lips and nodded, looking at the blond man with critical eyes, assessing every detail of his face as Enjolras stared at him in turn. He sighed and shook his head after a moment, just as Combeferre walked into the lounge, flanked by Jehan and Courfeyrac, the latter of who looked sheepish. Grantaire looked up and smiled gently at the three of them, punctuating the gesture with a yawn.

“What are you doing, Enjolras? This isn’t like you.” Combeferre sighed and stepped forward. He put his hands under Enjolras’ armpits and heaved him onto his feet with slight ease, and the blond wrapped an arm around his shoulder and sagged against him. Grantaire got the feeling that Combeferre had experience with drunks, guessing from the way he handled the intoxicated member of the group with practiced ease. The cynic doubted his experience rested with Enjolras though. Combeferre shot a dirty look towards Courfeyrac and hissed, “I told you not to give him that bottle of Jack! I told you it was no good to have him drown his sorrows but you never listen, Courfeyrac! Now look at him.” 

“It’s okay,” Enjolras soothed, pressing his forehead against Combeferre’s cheek and looking happily towards the flustered poet and his subdued boyfriend. “Grantaire promised to go on a date with me tomorrow night.”

All eyes turned to the cynic in surprise, who in turn flashed bright red in embarrassment and said, “I said I’d go to dinner as friends and that it most definitely was not a date. I also said that if it doesn’t go well you have to leave me alone, which you promised you would.”

“It’ll go perfectly,” Enjolras murmured, closing his dark eyes and leaning his head against Combeferre’s shoulder. “Tell him it’ll go perfectly and that he loves me.” 

“Come on, Enjolras. Home.” Combeferre sighed and shook his head, patting the blonde’s shoulder compassionately. He handed the drunkard over to Courfeyrac, and the politics student shot a quick ‘goodnight Grantaire!’ over his shoulder and kissed Jehan on the cheek as he passed him. Courfeyrac, too, kissed Jehan goodbye, then staggered down the hallway with Enjolras, who was chatting away happily. Combeferre sighed for what seemed like the fifth time that night and turned to Grantaire. “I swear, he’s not usually like that. He’s been mopey recently and Courfeyrac thought it would be a great idea to get him drunk. He’ll be so embarrassed in the morning.”

Grantaire assured him it was okay, and Jehan saw the man to the door. When he returned, he sunk onto the couch beside the cynic as soon as they were gone, and leaned into him. The poet looked up at him with wide green eyes, his lips pursed in consideration, “Do you really think tomorrow night’s a good idea, Taire?”

“Not at all,” Grantaire leaned back against the arm of the couch and closed his eyes. He needed to get up and take some painkillers, because his head was pounding and his leg aching, and dealing with a drunken Enjolras was the last thing he needed, but he was far too tired to move. He sighed deeply, “He probably won’t even remember in the morning. But you didn’t see how he was looking at me, Jehan. I couldn’t just say no to him.

“Do you like his as more than a friend?”

“I don’t know,” The cynic confessed. “I don’t think so. I mean… I don’t even really know him.” 

Jehan hummed and nodded, then leaned up to kiss Grantaire on the forehead before he stood up. He smiled down at his friend gently and, almost as if he could read the cynic’s mind, said, “Do you need anything before I go to bed? Painkillers, tea, another blanket?”

Grantaire grinned and confirmed the offer for tea and painkillers, then thanked the Gods for gracing him with such a wonderful best friend.

++++

From Enjolras: Six o’clock tonight?  
To Enjolras: You remember that? ;)  
From Enjolras: ….Combeferre may have had to remind me this morning, but I do remember now. Sorry, that behaviour was unacceptable.  
To Enjolras: Just no more drowning your sorrows, okay? See you at six.

++++

“We’re having dinner at a pancake house?” Grantaire cocked an eyebrow sceptically and looked from the blond beside him, to the all-day breakfast eatery that Enjolras had brought him to. He didn’t really see the appeal, “Does this have some sort of significance to our past or something?”

“It was here that I first realised that I was in love with you,” Enjolras smiled gently and placed his hand on the small of Grantaire’s back, guiding him into the restaurant as he continued the story that Grantaire wasn’t all too sure he wanted to hear. “You were hung over as hell one day and spent hours convincing me to drive you out here because you said it made your head feel better and you didn’t want to walk. I don’t even know what happened to make me realise that I love you. You just smiled at me and it was like I was seeing you for the first time.”

Grantaire did not like to talk about the things that he couldn’t remember. He didn’t like the fact that people knew things about him and he just had to trust them to tell him the truth. He especially didn’t like the fact that he couldn’t join in and reminisce with his friends, who so clearly had an abundance of amazing memories that he wanted to remember but couldn’t. 

But when Enjolras spoke, a feeling of nostalgia rose is his chest and for some reason he even found himself wishing that Enjolras would tell him more. He liked to hear him speak. He wouldn’t dream of mentioning that fact though, as they took their seats and Grantaire focused on the menu that had been placed in his hands.

“Hey, sweetie.” The waitress smiled down at him and he was momentarily taken aback by the way she looked at him as if they were familiar with each other. He looked at her name badge as she spoke, trying to place the name he saw but failing. He definitely did not know an Eponine. “Haven’t seen you in here for a while, or anywhere else for that matter. Thought you might have found somewhere better to eat!” She chuckled and shook her head, “The usual?” 

“I have a usual?” Grantaire whispered to Enjolras, who nodded eagerly and mouthed ‘you’re a regular’. Grantaire smiled slightly and looked back to the waitress, “Uh… no, I’ll just have the chocolate chip pancakes and a cup of tea, please.”

The waitress frowned at him curiously, as if he had gone slightly mad, and then took the blond man’s order before scurrying away and chatting to one of the other waitresses behind the counter. Enjolras chuckled slightly and after a minute, the reactions of the two clicked in his mind. He groaned, “That was my usual, wasn’t it?”

Enjolras nodded and the cynic blushed harshly as Eponine came back and set their drinks down on the table. Grantaire was hardly surprised to see that Enjolras was a coffee drinker, black with no sugar. That seemed to suit him more than the spirits he’d been on the night before. Grantaire hadn’t considered the possibility that there were places where the staff knew his name and he’d visited so often his order had been memorised. He figured that the friends who had visited him in the hospital were the only ones known to him; he hadn’t considered the possibility that there were others out there whom he was acquainted with. 

Dinner with Enjolras, overall, was a pleasant affair. Grantaire laughed at the stories that Enjolras told; most of which the cynic was thrilled to hear did not revolve around the experiences they’d shared or the person Grantaire had been before the accident. (And Grantaire had to admit, he didn’t really know a whole lot about the person he had been, other than that he’d been a slob, but he always had been.) He found talking to Enjolras to be easy, once he’d given him the chance, and he certainly felt that the smile Enjolras had harboured throughout the dinner suited him much more than the sorrowful eyes that had been in place the night before. Grantaire, despite the doubts he’d had at the beginning of the night, had a good night, and his face was flushed with happiness as Enjolras drove him home. 

“Thank you for tonight,” Grantaire breathed as Enjolras pulled up outside his flat complex. He smiled at the man, and Enjolras returned the gesture as he shut the engine off and got out of the car, appearing beside Grantaire to open his door in a matter of seconds. He helped the amnesiac out of the car, and acted as his human crutch as they made their way back to Grantaire’s front door. 

“I…uh… I just wanted to say that I’m glad you let me take you out tonight.” Enjolras smiled, taking a step closer to Grantaire as they stood outside of his front door. “I’ve missed you. It’s been strange not having in my life, arguing with me about everything.”

And then he did what Grantaire had been hoping he wouldn’t, and leaned forward to connect their lips. At the last minute, Grantaire turned his head and Enjolras was met with the pale skin of the raven haired man’s cheek, but Grantaire swiftly pushed him away, a look of anger and sadness playing in his blue eyes. 

“You know I don’t want that.” Said he sternly. “I’m sorry, Enjolras, I shouldn’t have come tonight. Not when I knew that you wanted something more than I was willing to give you.”

“No, I’m sorry, I—“ Enjolras began, but Grantaire cut him off with a shake of his head. 

He opened the door to his flat and stepped around the blond, “Look, I enjoyed hanging out with you tonight, but just as friends. If we do it again, then that’s all it’d be, just like when I spend time with Combeferre or Jehan.” His voice softened. Then, "Night, Enjolras."

Grantaire closed the door before Enjolras could reply, and he was glad that Jehan was at Courfeyrac’s for the time being, because he couldn’t hold in the tears that were caused by the confusion Enjolras presented him with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eek, I'm so bad at writing people when they're drunk! (PS, I don't know if you can tell or not, but no one told Grantaire that he was an alcoholic, so he doesn't know anything about that!)
> 
> The ending is kinda weak because I was in two minds as to if I should leave it on a good note or carry on the angst and have Enjolras ruin things for himself. I chose the latter just cause I like a bit of drama. Don't worry, Grantaire's not gonna disown Enjolras again. 
> 
> The feedback on the last chapter was so wonderful, thank you! Let me know what you think of this one too! :D


	9. When I Was Your Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan sighed, "What I’m trying to say is, Enjolras is acting out of desperation, and I don’t think he understands that he’s pushing you further away.”
> 
> “It’s not my fault that I can’t remember him.” Grantaire whispered softly. Then, “I wish I could.”

From Courfeyrac: Jehan, ‘Jolras just got home & stormed to his room without even saying anything. Don’t think it went well tonight.  
From Courfeyrac: OH GOD! It’s bad, he’s listening to Bruno Mars  
From Courfeyrac: He’s singing along. He just cried and sang ‘I should’ve brought you flowers and held your hand, should’ve gave you all my hours when I had the chance.’   
From Courfeyrac: This is Enjolras, Jehan! He doesn’t listen to Bruno Mars and cry like a teenage girl! Why aren’t you replying, this is an emergency!!!!!!! I need your poetic expertise, I don’t know what to do!  
From Courfeyrac: Did I mention that ENJOLRAS REALLY CAN’T SING?!?!  
To Courfeyrac: Calm down, I just got home, I’ll go check on R. Make Enj tea and ask him if he wants to talk.  
From Courfeyrac: What’s the R verdict? Is he singing sad Bruno Mars songs? Should I take Enjolras ice cream like they do in the movies?  
To Courfeyrac: Enjolras hates ice cream. Haven’t talked to R yet, think I can hear him crying though. Text you later, gonna go give him cuddles.

“Grantaire?” Jehan called through Grantaire’s door, a concerned frown on his face as he waited for an answer. He hadn’t seen Grantaire cry in years, since far before the accident; probably around the same time that he started drinking every day to kill his feelings. He knocked again, but he received no other answer than a few muffled sobs. He entered the room anyway, and upon entering, he could see little other than a mess that he knew would probably never be cleaned. But when he looked past that, he could see a Grantaire-sized lump in the middle of the man’s bed, hidden under thick sheets. The sniffles and occasional broken sob were radiating from said lump, although Jehan could tell he was doing his best to mute them so that he could remain undetected. Jehan frowned in concern and crossed the room, sitting on the corner of the bed and placing a hand on Grantaire’s back; at this the man beneath the sheets stiffened and sniffled once more. Jehan asked, “What happened?”

A moment, and then in a shaky voice, “I hate him.” 

“Who, Enjolras?” replied Jehan as he laid down beside Grantaire, curving against his back in the same way he had done all those years ago whenever his best friend would get upset. He’d heard Grantaire say he hated Enjolras more times that he could count, but never before had he actually feared that the dark haired man might mean it. Grantaire pulled the covers down so that his head was poking out of the top and nodded as he shuffled around to face his friend. Jehan sighed sadly, “What did he do? I thought you’d have a good time.” 

“I did. I had a great time but I still hate him,” Grantaire sniffled, and Jehan was twice as confused as he had been when he walked through the door and saw Grantaire hidden beneath blankets. Jehan raked a hand through Grantaire’s curls soothingly, because that had always worked when they were younger when he wanted to get Grantaire to stop crying, although he had to admit that he was a bit out of practice with the skill now. Grantaire sighed and leaned into Jehan’s hand, “I had a great time and I thought for a second maybe it could work, and that I could be friends with him again, just like I am with everybody else. I thought he was on the same page as me but then he tried to kiss me and I just freaked out.”

Jehan curled closer towards Grantaire, continuing to play with his hair, and hummed in consideration, “Why did you freak out?” 

“Because!” Grantaire wailed, his arm flying into the air in exasperation, then slapping back down on his side. “He confuses me! I don’t even know him but he makes me feel good when I’m with him and I have no idea why! I know that I don’t love him, I really don’t, but then I feel differently about him than I do the rest of you guys and I don’t understand it. Why won’t he just leave me alone, Jehan? I don’t want to be confused all the time, it’s hard enough trying to get by when the last thing I remember I was studying to take my GCSEs.” 

“Oh, Grantaire,” the poet cooed as the dark haired man started crying anew, torn up by the confusion that the blond presented him with. “What you have to understand is Enjolras spent months waiting for you to wake up, and in that time he started thinking that you’d wake up and you’d be happy to see him there. He thought you’d wake up and want to be with him because that was all you wanted before the accident, and he spent so long considering the possibility that you’d want to be with him that he stopped thinking things would go any differently. So when it turned out that you couldn’t remember him, I think he just started trying to clutch at straws. He’s so desperate for you to remember him, or to just even let him into your life again, that he’s not acting like himself. Enjolras is usually extremely composed; I’d never even seen him get drunk before last night.” Jehan chuckled, and then continued when Grantaire didn’t join him, “What I’m trying to say is, Enjolras is acting out of desperation, and I don’t think he understands that he’s pushing you further away.”

“It’s not my fault that I can’t remember him.” Grantaire whispered softly. Then, “I wish I could.” 

He really did wish now, more than ever before, that he could remember everything. Or, he wished that he could remember Enjolras and the feelings he’d had for him. He wanted to love the man—he wanted to know him, but he didn’t, and he couldn’t love him. Grantaire had no idea why, he just didn’t feel it; there was no overwhelming urge to be near him, and his heart didn’t hurt whenever he looked at the blond. He just felt… confused. 

“Can I suggest something?” Grantaire nodded, his dark curls tickling Jehan’s nose. The poet pursed his lips and considered his words carefully, “I know you don’t love him but why don’t you just… I don’t know, give him a chance? Get to know him a bit. Enjolras is a really great guy and even if you never want anything more than friendship from him, he’s a great friend to have.”

Grantaire didn’t reply, but rather considered it momentarily.

+++++

“Enjolras? I made tea.” Courfeyrac had to yell slightly to be heard over the booming sound of Bruno Mars (which had been playing on repeat for at least twenty minutes now, and damn was it getting annoying). He stepped quickly into the room and put Enjolras’ favourite mug down on his bedside cabinet, then sighed as he looked at his friend.

Enjolras was curled up on his side, his hair falling over his eyes and obscuring them slightly, although Courfeyrac could still see them well enough to see that they were red rimmed slightly from crying. His nose, too, was slightly red, and Courfeyrac couldn’t help but think that Enjolras still looked beautiful even when he’d been crying, unlike most people. Enjolras was practically glaring at him from beneath his blond curls, although the look lacked its usual ferocity, so Courfeyrac sat down on the bed next to him, his legs crossed. He raised his eye brow and commanded, “Talk. Tell me what happened and please, for the love of God, turn this song off.”

“But it’s so appropriate, I should’ve held his hand and gave him all my hours when I had the chance.” The blond groaned, but he turned over and flicked his iPod off none the less before curling back into his original position. When he didn’t say anything, Courfeyrac prodded his shoulder and made an impatient noise, signifying that he wanted Enjolras to hurry up and stalk talking already; not knowing what was going on was almost too much for Courfeyrac to handle. The politics student sighed, “he used to love me and I completely took that for granted. I could’ve had so much more time with him but I was stupid and tried to tell myself I didn’t love him too even though I did.” 

“He might come around, you know.” Courfeyrac said softly, although he knew from the time he’d spent with Grantaire that there was little chance of that happening. Grantaire was a completely different person to who he used to be, a lot less cynical, a lot more stubborn, more closed off and private. More like how he’d been when he was fifteen years old, when he still had a little hope left in the world, according to Jehan. “Or, you know, his memory still might come back. The doctors said we just have to wait.” 

“I tried to kiss him,” Enjolras blurted out as he sat up and reached for the mug on his bedside table. He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his hands around the warmth that radiated from the cup. He sighed and shook his head, “If I’d done that before the accident, it would’ve been exactly what he wanted, but he didn’t want me to. He didn’t want me. He pushed me away and yelled at me. I thought… I don’t know what I thought… we had a really great time and he was smiling and laughing and he looked just like the old Grantaire and I got carried away and now I blew it.” 

Courfeyrac smiled gently, “Come on, he’ll come around. He probably just needs a bit of time to think things over.”

Enjolras opened his mouth to argue (because really, when could Enjolras ever let anyone else be right?) but his phone buzzed on the side table and distracted him. He snatched it up, almost angrily, but his eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas when he saw who it was, “It’s Grantaire!” 

The blond held the phone out excitedly for Courfeyrac to read the message, and then quickly tapped out a reply and checked it over for spelling mistakes, pedantic as always. Courfeyrac chuckled and ruffled Enjolras’ hair before getting up and vacating the room with a happy ‘I’ll leave you to it.’ 

From Grantaire: I have a proposition for you. Kinda. If you want.  
To Grantaire: Anything. 

He sent the message without hesitation and held his breath. Whatever Grantaire wanted, he knew he’d give him; a part of him feared that Grantaire’s proposition would involve cutting off all contact, but he knew that even if that was what the man wanted, he’d give it to him. So long as he was happy. Grantaire’s response took far too long to arrive. 

From Grantaire: I had a really good time tonight until… well, you know… but I did have a good time. And I was talking to Jehan and it got me thinking… do you maybe want to, just as friends, get to know each other. On Sunday mornings at the pancake house.   
To Grantaire: I’ll be there. Pick you up at ten?  
From Grantaire: See you then.

+++++

Enjolras woke up at six am on Sunday morning, four hours before he was supposed to be picking Grantaire up; he showered, did his hair three times and went through six different outfits before he finally settled on one that he thought looked good enough to impress. Grantaire might have wanted this to be a friendship building task, but that didn’t mean that Enjolras wouldn’t look his best to try and win the other man over. Grantaire never had to know that he was playing dirty. 

The blond must have drank four cups of coffee in the time between waking up and leaving the house, trying to occupy his time with the smallest thing just so he didn’t stop and think about the fact that Grantaire really wanted to see him. Grantaire wasn’t shutting him out for once; Grantaire had actually asked to see him. The excitement was almost too much for Enjolras to bear. He rolled his eyes as he considered just how ridiculous he was being; before Grantaire, he’d never been interested in relationship or love, it was just another thing he didn’t have time for, but now it was all he really had time for. He’d drop everything if Grantaire so much as snapped his fingers and commanded him too; Enjolras barely felt that he knew himself at all anymore; his priorities were all upside down. 

But he wasn’t prepared to consider that now, not when Grantaire was waiting for him just a couple of streets over. He shook his head as he shrugged his coat on, reminding himself once again not to get his hopes up or get carried away like the last time; he had to keep in mind that Grantaire wanted this to be a platonic thing. And Enjolras would take being friends over the stony silence that he’d been met with over the past couple of months any day.

When Enjolras pulled up outside Grantaire and Jehan’s flat ten minutes early, he was still reminding himself that the new Grantaire, the one he thought he knew but didn’t know half as much as he assumed, only wanted friendship. No matter what Enjolras the other man was suggesting through his words or his body language, he didn’t want anything romantic. 

He pushed all these thoughts aside when Grantaire slid into the car, and he noted that the man was starting to walk a little easier than he had been a fortnight ago when Enjolras had taken him to the hospital. Grantaire smiled as he sat there, the gesture small and unsure, and he said, “So, let’s start small with this whole getting to know each other stuff. Where were you born?”

Enjolras grinned in return, and pulled away from the curb as he answered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I heard Aaron Tveit's cover of When I Was Your Man this morning, I got the idea to write this (I really haven't done anything else all day other than write this...I didn't proof read this either because I'm too lazy so excuse any mistakes.)
> 
> Also, sorry if I got any of the Bruno Mars lyrics wrong, I hadn't actually heard the song until this morning so I don't know it all that well. I just wanted to add a little humour to the story and I thought it would be funny if Enjolras pulled a very Courfeyrac-ish move and sang along to it at the top of his lungs. 
> 
> Feedback, as always, is encouraged and loved! :)


	10. I Should Tell You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire wants to learn about the man he had been, Jehan solicits his friends to keep secrets, and Montparnasse ruins it all.

As cliché as it may be, Grantaire felt that waiting for his memories to return was like waiting for the rain to come during a drought. Optimistic as the doctors were, Grantaire didn’t believe that his memories were ever going to come back, and a part of him was completely fine with that, because he was perfectly capable of rebuilding his life with brand new memories, but for the most part it just made him feel melancholy. He wanted to be able to remember his final years at school, where he met most of his friends. Most of all, he wanted to be able to remember loving Enjolras because when the blond looking at him with those wide brown eyes and smiled, Grantaire just felt empty. 

Despite all of that, Grantaire had no hope that his memories would ever come back. It had been months since he woke up, and he could no more remember his past than he had done that day he woke up in the hospital. He wasn’t prepared to dwell on that melancholy, though; he was going to work to replace those missing years with brand new ones.

He did, however, feel as though he had to stop running from his past. If he wanted to build a new future, then he felt that he had to at least know what kind of man he had been before the accident, because he presumed that he was nothing at all like that mopey fifteen year old who used to curse at teachers and spit on the school field. That meant that he had to turn to his friends, the only ones who really knew who he was and the things he’d liked to do.

Jehan told him that his one true passion had always been art, although he had kind of assumed that already from looking around his bedroom and finding all of the art supplies hidden away in whatever crevice they would fit into. He had been, according to Jehan, a lot more private about his art back then than he was now, and never really showed anyone what he was working on. He had attended university for a year to study art but dropped out because he never bothered to re-apply for his student loans, and therefore couldn’t afford his tuition. Apparently, the cynic had not been too disappointed about that fact, but Grantaire felt a bout of disappointment. He was slightly appeased when Jehan told him he did attend an art class on Thursday afternoons at the recreational centre in town. Grantaire made the decision that he would start attending the lessons again so that he could be a little more like his old self.

Courfeyrac had told him that he liked to cause a bit of harmless trouble, usually at Enjolras or Joly’s expense, and usually with Courfeyrac himself as a partner in crime. Their pranks were, in Courfeyrac’s own words, “harmless and usually unappreciated, but hilarious none the less.” The information made Grantaire smile, although it didn’t much surprise him; when they were kids, he had always conducted pranks to play out on poor, unsuspecting Jehan. 

Enjolras, on one of their pancake mornings, told him that he had considered himself an idealist, and didn’t much care for Enjolras’ revolutionary beliefs. If Enjolras was to believed, and Grantaire—who found that Enjolras truly was an amiable friend, as Jehan had suggested—did believe him, then he was perfectly fine and content in living with his disbelief. Enjolras had said that he couldn’t be sure, but it always appeared to him that value, in Grantaire’s mind, had always rested in the love and friendship of those around him. Jehan had confirmed this as fact, and Grantaire had been pleased to hear that he had had some conviction at all. And if his only belief and value were to be his friends, then Grantaire wasn’t going to complain.

Bahorel informed him that on occasion, they would go kickboxing together at a small boxing club just outside of London. He didn’t go often, and Grantaire failed to see himself in a boxing ring at all, especially not if Bahorel was his opponent. More often, he would go fencing with Feuilly, although Grantaire saw no appeal in the sport at all now. He promised them both that he would try it, at least once, just to be true to his old self. 

Grantaire learnt a lot about the books he used to read from Combeferre, who admitted that they weren’t as close before the accident as they were now, but the cynic didn’t mind that at all; all of his relationships, apart from the one he had with Jehan, had been reconstructed now that he had a clean slate, he doubted that any of them were as they had been before. Combeferre told him that he liked to read books by famous philosophers, and then make notes in the margins that criticised and counteracted their works. On one occasion, he had borrowed one of Enjolras’ Voltaire books, and had made such crude comments in the margins that Enjolras had flat out refused to ever let him borrow another book and demanded he replace the copy he had defaced. The thought of outraging Enjolras so much made Grantaire chuckle.

The rest of his friends didn’t provide him with much more of an insight. Joly told him that he hated it if someone bought him coffee but forgot to bring him milk and sugar; the medic then went on to make him a cup of coffee, the way he claimed it had always been made before, but Grantaire much preferred Jehan’s tea. Marius told him that he introduced himself to everybody as R, although Grantaire remembered the nickname and its significance from when he and Jehan had created it when they were thirteen. Bossuet told him that he had a good sense of humour, that at times was a little dark, but he had always been that way, and had discovered since the accident that he still was; he doubted that he would ever be any different, but he thanked the man for his help anyway. 

Although the information was a lot for Grantaire to process, and sometimes it was difficult for him to comprehend because he couldn’t understand some of what he was told (or, in Joly’s case, he couldn’t understand how he had once liked coffee.) But he trusted his friends to be honest with him; he felt like half a person and his friends were helping him fill in the blanks. Les Amis, as Grantaire had discovered that they called themselves, couldn’t tell him everything, of course; he still didn’t know why his parents hadn’t tried to call him, and he was too scared of the answer to ask (he was fearful that one of them, or both were either dead or in jail, and he was happier to live in ignorance than ask otherwise.)

What Grantaire didn’t know, however, was that his friends were keeping a part of his past life from him. It had been Jehan’s idea, although Courfeyrac and Combeferre had been quick to agree with him; the poet thought that maybe, if they never told Grantaire that he had once been an alcoholic, then maybe Grantaire would never feel the urge to turn back to the bottle to deal with everyday life. Further, he assumed that if they never told him that his parents had disowned him when he turned sixteen, and that he hadn’t spoken to them since then, well then maybe he wouldn’t be so unhappy. Jehan had always wanted his best friend to be happy, and now, he hoped that he would finally have the opportunity to. Surprisingly, Enjolras vehemently objected the idea, and only went along with it because he was out voted. The blond warned them that if they kept it from Grantaire and he found out elsewhere, or if his memories returned and he remembered for himself, then he’d resent them for lying to him. 

If Jehan hadn’t been so determined, he probably would have listened. He probably should have listened, but instead Grantaire continued to live a life oblivious to his own past.

++++

After spending weeks on end cooped up in his flat, barring hospital appointments and Sunday morning pancake sessions with Enjolras, Grantaire was finally starting to get bored. He’d already filled up the notepad that Courfeyrac had bought him, and he swiftly found that his art supplies were dwindling by the day, so he decided to go into two on his own for the first time to replenish his stock. It took him an hour to find somewhere, but he was contented to spend a further hour browsing paintbrushes and paint pallets. He left with three new sketch books, in varying sizes, a new pack of pencils and some watercolour paints. 

He was texting Jehan to come pick him up as he walked out of the store, and as a consequence walked right into somebody; he stuttered out a quick apology, and after making sure that the person was alright, he went to move on. The person, however, grabbed his bicep and said, “Grantaire?” 

The cynic did little other than stare at the man, taking in his motorcycle boots and leather jacket, and knew that he hadn’t met this man before. He certainly hadn’t been one of those who had visited him in the hospital, and none of his friends had ever introduced them, so he concluded that this man must be like the waitress in the pancake house; someone who knew his name but he couldn’t recollect. He smiled slightly at the man and nodded; he was getting used to not remembering people who could remember him.

“Man, I haven’t seen you in like… six months, maybe more than that…” The dark haired man cocked his head to the side, almost as if he were considering when and where he had last seen the cynic, but Grantaire could be of no assistance there so he remained silent. When Grantaire didn’t say anything, the man’s grin faded away slightly, and was replaced by a look of confusion, “why are you looking at me like that? It’s me, Montparnasse. I know I got a haircut and everything but I still look the same…” Montparnasse chuckled to let Grantaire know that he was joking. Then, “You know, I heard rumours that you got sober.”

Grantaire squeaked, “excuse me?”

“I didn’t think you had it in you, I’ve gotta be honest, but look! It’s noon and you don’t even look drunk yet.” Montparnasse chuckled and clapped Grantaire over the shoulder, seemingly ignoring the fact that Grantaire was clearly confused as hell and had no idea what he was talking about. “I mean, we all wanted you to cause a liver can only take so much, but I thought you were too far gone to turn back.” 

Grantaire didn’t like what this man… Montparnasse or whatever it was that he said he was called… was trying to say. He understood the connotations, of course, because his own father had been a drunk and he’d overheard many an argument where his mother had begged him to get sober, but Grantaire refused to believe that he was that man, and he refused to listen to what some stranger was saying. He wasn’t his father, and he certainly wasn’t a drunk. Sure, he’d been a little rebellious when he was fifteen; he’d smoked a couple of cigarettes and stolen the occasional beer, but what kid didn’t? Besides, if he had a drinking problem, then Jehan would have told him already.

Grantaire’s father had been a hideous screw up, and as soon as Grantaire had been able to understand just how much of a mess his parent was, he had sworn that he would never become like him. 

“I think you have the wrong person,” Grantaire grumbled and went back to texting Jehan, turning and walking the other way but Montparnasse trotted up to him, that confused look back on his face once again.

“Not unless there’s another Grantaire who can drink a whole bottle of vodka and still carry on afterwards,” Montparnasse argued, walking fast to try and keep up with the cynic, who was retreating as fast as he was able. Grantaire had to stop, however, when Montparnasse grabbed his wrist and forced him to stop. “Look, I know we were never really friends outside of the whole bar scene but I’m honestly happy for you if you did manage to get sober. It takes a lot, and you really do look better than you did the last time I saw you; healthier. We were just as drunk as you were half of the time but even we could tell that your drinking was getting out of hand and I know that we uhm… I know that we encouraged you to drink more most of the time, but I’m sorry and I’m just glad that you got out of it.” 

One more smile and Grantaire was left on his own once again, and he suddenly didn’t want to text Jehan to pick him up. He knew that he couldn’t take what Montparnasse had said as truth so easily, but it sure sounded like he knew what he was talking about, and he could think of no rational reason as to why the stranger would lie to him. But that only confused him further. If he was an alcoholic, or whatever as this Montparnasse man had insinuated, then why hadn’t Jehan said anything? Why hadn’t Enjolras, or Courfeyrac or Combeferre? Why hadn’t the people he trusted to tell him the important things about his old life followed through on their half of the agreement?

Grantaire was suddenly furious with his friends and disappointed in himself, and he knew that he had to find out the truth immediately. 

+++++

“I thought you were going to call me when you were done,” Jehan said as soon as Grantaire walked through the door, not looking up from the notepad in his lap. Courfeyrac sat next to him, curled around his boyfriend as he watched some movie on the TV; part of Grantaire wished that the brunette wasn’t there, because he was far more comfortable confronting Jehan when it was just the two of them. But he wanted answers, and God only knew when Courfeyrac was going to leave.

“Do either of you know some guy called Montparnasse?” Grantaire asked coldly, and the couple on the sofa stiffened immediately. Courfeyrac’s eyes widened, no longer taking in what was on the TV screen, and Jehan looked up from his work, a flush creeping up his neck. The poet whispered something into Courfeyrac’s ear, and a few moments later the brunette stood up and shuffled into Jehan’s bedroom. 

Jehan coughed and looked down at his lap, “Where did you see Montparnasse?”

“I walked into him. Literally.” Grantaire’s voice was layered with impatience, and the innocent tone to Jehan’s voice irritated him to no end. He narrowed his ice cold eyes and hissed, “It doesn’t matter where I saw him, it matters that he said some things and if what he said was true, then that means you lied to me.” 

“What did he say?”

“Stop acting stupid, Jehan!” Grantaire yelled, and the poet finally looked at him, his face flushed dark red, the way it always did when the poet was faced with confrontation. “He said he’d heard rumours that I’d gotten sober, which of course I had no idea about. Long story short, he pretty much told me that he and I were drinking buddies, and that he never thought I’d be able to quit drinking because in his words I was ‘too far gone’. Is that true?”

“There’s more to it than that,” Jehan whispered. He bit his lip and looked up at Grantaire hopefully, his eyes pleading with Grantaire to understand. “You were an alcoholic and I know… I know I shouldn’t have kept it from you and I’m sorry but—“ 

“There is no but, Jehan.” Grantaire interrupted, his voice loud and angry and hard as steel; the small poet looked even smaller, weighed down by the tone of Grantaire’s voice. “You promised me! You promised that you’d tell me the important things and I think the fact that I was an alcoholic was pretty important!” Grantaire paused to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration. Then, “You all kept that from me. I asked you to help me learn about the person that I used to be, and you thought that telling me that I took an art class was more important than the fact that I used to drink my own weight in alcohol every night?”

“You drank because you weren’t happy!” Jehan yelled in return, finally standing up from his spot on the couch to stand before Grantaire. When he spoke again, his voice quivered and his eyes were watery, “You’ve got to understand, you were so unhappy. I haven’t seen you happy for so long, and I just thought… maybe if I didn’t tell you then you’d get a second chance. That’s all I wanted for you.” 

Grantaire’s jaw clenched angrily, and he let out an angry huff though his nose. Jehan worried for a second that, upon admitting that he’d lied, Grantaire would hit him, or walk out and go missing for days on end like he used to whenever things went particularly badly with Enjolras. But the cynic did neither, and stared down at the poet with anger burning in his eyes, “That wasn’t your decision to make, Jehan. I don’t know who I am anymore, I lost the last six years of my life and I depended on you to tell me the truth so that I could try and get back to my normal life. I trusted you to tell me the things that really mattered and you didn’t. How do you ever expect me to trust you again? Is there anything else you’re keeping from me?” 

When Jehan looked down, shame covering his face, Grantaire knew that he hadn’t been given the truth when he asked for it. Grantaire groaned and rolled his eyes, running his hand through his hair, “What else is there? What, am I going to go into town and someone else I don’t knows gonna tell me that my parents are dead?”

“They’re not dead,” The poet said quietly, “But you don’t talk to them.”

“Why not?”

“Your dad started hitting you,” Jehan explained; Grantaire just stared at him, because his dad had always hit him, he just never dared to tell Jehan. “And then they kicked you out the day you turned sixteen, so you never talked to them again.” Jehan looked up to meet the cynic’s eyes, but Grantaire wasn’t in his place anymore, he was moving towards the door, and Jehan scurried after him and grabbed his hand. “Where are you going?”

The amnesiac pulled his hand out of Jehan’s grasp and snapped, “Out. Leave me alone.”


	11. Breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five hours and a missing amnesiac with a large chip on his shoulder who wouldn’t answer his mobile phone caused a lot of worry within the members of Les Amis. Grantaire had been out of his flat on his own a grand total of once, and never before at night, when the streets of London came to life and real trouble emerged from the dark corners they hid within during the day.

Five hours and a missing amnesiac with a large chip on his shoulder who wouldn’t answer his mobile phone caused a lot of worry within the members of Les Amis. Grantaire had been out of his flat on his own a grand total of once, and never before at night, when the streets of London came to life and real trouble emerged from the dark corners they hid within during the day. 

The search party began in Jehan and Grantaire’s apartment, since it was the last place that the cynic had been seen before he disappeared in a fit of anger. Courfeyrac, who had heard the entire argument perfectly from the bedroom, explained to the rest of their friends what had happened, starting from the encounter with Montparnasse and ending with the door slamming loudly. He left out the part about Jehan crying. Combeferre, ever the logical member of the group, dove into action straight away; he organised the group into separate teams and allocated them different parts of town in which they should look, reminding them to check alley ways just in case. 

Enjolras stood in the corner of the room, listening carefully to the plan as he cast daggers towards all of his friends in turn; from the second he walked through the door, he’d stood there in the corner with his arms crossed over his chest in a fit of stormy silence, mentally refusing to take charge of the situation as he usually would have.

“I told you this would happen,” Enjolras seethed as the group wrapped themselves up in thick hoodies and scarfs, preparing to venture out into the night. Combeferre shot the golden boy a warning look, mouthing ‘leave it’ but Enjolras was too angry to drop the subject. He had far too much to do, he was worried out of his mind and he was pretty sure he could feel a headache building behind his eyes; the last thing he needed to do was go out and spend all night looking for Grantaire, especially when he had warned them that this would happen. “I told you that your stupid plan would end badly and just ending hurting Grantaire more than anything else.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I was trying to look out for him.” Jehan whispered in return, his voice hitching with emotion. And he did know that what he’d done was wrong, but by the time he’d realised that he should have told the truth, it was too late, and Grantaire would have gotten angry at him for keeping it from him for so long. By the time he realised that he was too late, he couldn’t see any other way out of it. 

“If anything happens to him—“

“Enjolras! Enough.” Combeferre snapped, silencing his best friend before he let his sharp, golden tongue run away with itself. The blond glared at him, then sighed and shook his head; he wasn’t in the mood to argue with Combeferre or Jehan. He’d apologise to Jehan for snapping at him—tomorrow, when his temper was in control, and only if they found Grantaire. For now, he would just ignore the glares he was receiving from Courfeyrac, so that he could go and search for the missing man with Combeferre.

Along with his bespectacled friend, he went out into the night, a torch stashed in his pocket just in case they should encounter any dark alleyways that were just too difficult to see down. They walked in silence for ten minutes, keeping their eyes peeled for the small amnesiac with the great stock of dark curls; Enjolras was too angry at Combeferre for being part of the secret keeping to desire a conversation with him, and Combeferre was too angry at Enjolras for snapping at Jehan when the poet was already visible upset. They ignored each other, for the most part, only really sticking together for safety measures. 

“You can be a real jerk sometimes,” Combeferre said, his voice hard, after they’d been walking for twenty minutes in silence without any avail and still hadn’t caught sight of their resident cynic. Enjolras scoffed and rolled his eyes as Combeferre continued to rant, “where do you think you get off talking to Jehan like that? He thought he was doing what was best for Grantaire, there’s no reason to get all high and mighty just cause he was wrong and you were right.” 

“And the fact that none of you even considered the repercussions of keeping things from him doesn’t matter at all?” Enjolras shot back, his brown eyes dark and harsh as they spared a glare towards Combeferre, then returned to their search. Enjolras never usually argued with Combeferre; it was probably his favourite thing about their friendship, but then again, Combeferre never usually got cross with him either. “At least I was looking out for Grantaire’s best interests, which is more than you guys can say.” 

It was Combeferre’s turn to scoff now, “Oh yeah, cause you’ve always looked out for Grantaire’s best interests.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Snapped Enjolras, who stopped dead in his tracks and frowned at the accusation. Combeferre wheeled around to look at him, eyes narrowed beneath the thick frame of his glasses.

“You know what I mean.” Combeferre practically hissed, heat rising up his neck as he got angrier and angrier. The brunette pointed an accusatory finger towards Enjolras and practically growled, “He might not remember but I definitely do. For so long before the accident you barely even talked to Grantaire if it wasn’t to yell at him for being drunk. You were downright cruel to him and you know it; you were so mean to him he flat out thought you hated him. It wasn’t until you thought that you’d lost him for good that you even admitted that you have feelings for him.”

Enjolras clenched his jaw and stared straight at his best friend, who just glared back at him and showed no repent for what he said. Enjolras knew that he hadn’t exactly been kind to Grantaire in the long run up to the accident, but he’d been getting better. They’d been making progress; he yelled at Grantaire less, Grantaire played Devil’s Advocate less, and they spent more time together outside of the group. They’d been getting on. 

“I don’t want to fight with you,” Enjolras sighed and ran a hand across his forehead; a headache was definitely coming on, and with a vengeance. Arguing with Combeferre was just making the unpleasant evening twice as bad. Combeferre nodded sharply, but his face didn’t soften so Enjolras continued, “I’m sorry, okay? Let’s just go look for Grantaire.”

Combeferre sighed, “Yeah. Yeah, I’m sorry too. Let’s go.”

+++++

A half hour later, the pair ended up splitting up so that they could cover more ground. No one had seen Grantaire, and as far as they knew they were no closer to finding him. It had always been a gift of his, in a way; if he didn’t want to be found, it would be near impossible to find him. He could fall right off the radar almost by whim, which was a useful survival technique for him, but hell for his friends, especially in the old days when he would disappear drunk out of his mind. 

Enjolras started checking bars after he left Combeferre’s side, just in case the big reveal inspired Grantaire to go back to his old ways. The blond wouldn’t be surprised if he did find the cynic in a bar, or passed out in an alley way, because he wanted to be the person he had been before the accident, and he probably wasn’t thinking about the consequences of the decision while he was angry and upset. 

The thing about Grantaire was, despite his striking mental strength, he was not blessed in terms of his physical strength; he was scrawny, borderline underweight, the product of drinking for years on end and only remembering to eat when Jehan prompted him to. His stature, for a man, was what one would consider short and dainty, possibly even tilting towards feminine; he held 5”8 at most at most, and at a guess weighed around 130 pounds. By all means, it was a miracle that his body allowed him to drink in excess as he did, because— quite like Jehan—he was built for the quainter things in life, rather than sleeping on street corners in the middle of the night.

Enjolras had always been surprised that Grantaire could do it. One time he’d matched Grantaire’s drinks for the night, mostly because he wanted to make a point (although he never had been sure what that point was). He’d thrown up twice and passed out in the back of the Musain before Grantaire was ever a metre past the borders of tipsy. 

This evening was certainly no different; he saw Grantaire stumble out of a pub only a short distance away from his flat (it was really a wonder that no one had found him there since it was so close to home) and as the man pressed a hand against the wall so that he could keep himself upright, he once again questioned just how Grantaire’s body didn’t betray him and surrender. He rushed over to the man none the less, lacking the usual anger that he found himself presented with whenever he saw Grantaire drunk. 

“Leave me alone,” the raven haired man slurred when he saw Enjolras approaching, his voice slow and broken and not at all his own; it was nothing like what the blond had ever heard of him before, and he’d seen Grantaire at his very worst. Grantaire swatted the man away with a lazy hand, and his bright blue eyes struggled to focus on his blond haired friend.

Enjolras gawped and demanded, “Have you taken something?!” He slipped his arm around Grantaire’s waist, sensing that the man wouldn’t last on his feet for much longer. The cynic groaned and shook his head, so Enjolras asked, “how much did you drink?”

“Two beers?” The way Grantaire stated it more as a question, rather than a fact, almost as if he was too much of a mess to even remember. Enjolras’ frown deepened; two bottles of beer was nothing, unless the cynic was lying, which Enjolras sorely doubted; Grantaire, when drunk, was painfully honest. Two bottles of beer was nothing, not to him and especially not to Grantaire, who really shouldn’t be stumbling over his own feet and slurring his words together so horrifically that they were barely even legible anymore. He started pulling Grantaire in the general direction of the flat he shared with Jehan, and used his free hand to call Jehan and told him to meet them there and to bring Joly.

It took Enjolras 40 minutes to walk Grantaire home, even though it only usually took 20 minutes and he was carrying the cynic more than supporting him. He had to stop occasionally to allow the cynic to throw up, which further concerned Enjolras because Grantaire was famously good at keeping his alcohol down. Grantaire whined all the way home that his head hurt. Enjolras hauled Grantaire through the front door of his apartment building and down the hallway, banging on the door urgently.

Jehan yanked the door out of the way, his eyes wide and red rimmed, and his face paled a little more when he saw the state of Grantaire, who was draped all over Enjolras. It was unclear to the poet if Grantaire was even conscious or not, but it didn’t matter much when Enjolras stormed past him, carrying Grantaire bridal style over to the couch, Jehan close on his heels. He deposited the cynic onto the couch and moved out of the way, allowing Joly to swoop in and intervene.

“Grantaire?” Joly asked as he peeled on one the cynic’s eyes open, and in return received an annoyed hum. Joly sighed in slight relief, “Can you tell me what you had to drink?” 

“Beer. Two.” Grantaire groaned, running a hand over his forehead. 

Joly frowned, the same frown that had been on Enjolras’ face for the last forty minutes. The medic pressed a hand to Grantaire’s forehead, feeling for a fever, “do you think anyone could have slipped you anything?” Grantaire shook his head. Enjolras hadn’t even considered the possibility. Joly looked over his shoulder to Jehan, “Is he on any medication? Anything that he shouldn’t mix with alcohol?”

“Panadol and something else, just painkillers for his headaches and his leg.” Jehan recited as he chewed on his finger nails in anxiety

Joly let out a deep breath and said, “well he’ll probably be mighty sick, and he’ll feel shocking tomorrow but he’ll be okay. Panadol and alcohol don’t mix at all, but I don’t think he had enough to drink to cause any real damage. Have someone watch him through the night just to be sure, but I don’t think we have anything to worry about.”

+++++++

When Grantaire woke up, it took a moment for his mind to realise what had happened the night before; his head was pounding and he felt ridiculously sick; none of which made sense to him, considering he had only had two beers the night before and yet Montparnasse had built him up as a much better drinker than that. He groaned and ran a hand across his forehead; he genuinely didn’t understand why he had liked to drink so much if this was how he felt the morning after.

“You’re awake!” 

The cynic opened his eyes and looked towards the voice; of course it was Enjolras, because who else would it be? He looked down at the man, who was sat Indian style on the floor, his dark eyes carefully focused on Grantaire’s face. He cocked his head to the side, “how are you feeling? Joly said you might feel rough.”

“I do,” he chuckled weakly. “But why?”

“You’re not supposed to mix your meds with alcohol, they don’t mix well.” Enjolras explained, and Grantaire couldn’t ignore the way that his lips pulled down in the corners to form an unhappy grimace. The expression stirred something unpleasant in Grantaire’s stomach; he didn’t want to be the cause of that look. He wanted to get rid of it. 

He shook his head; this wasn’t the time to ponder the confused feelings that came with Enjolras, he was still angry. He frowned, “where’s Jehan?”

“Asleep.” 

Grantaire nodded closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose; he knew that he’d have to apologise for scaring the man by disappearing, but he really didn’t want to, as childish as that might be. He wanted to ignore Jehan and stomp around the apartment like a moody teenager he still was at heart, but he knew it wouldn’t get him anywhere.

“He’s sorry, you know?” Enjolras whispered and edged a little closer to the cynic, so that his back was leaning against the couch and he was looking up at the raven haired man. “We all are. I want to tell you but---“

“So why didn’t you?” Grantaire snapped. 

“Because Jehan asked me not to. I warned him that you’d react like this, but I trusted his judgement more than I trusted my own; Jehan’s known you for so long the two of you are practically in sync.” Enjolras sighed and shook his head. “We all made a mistake, and we’re all sorry for that. We thought we were protecting you. Jehan thought he was doing the right thing, you know? He saw your past rip you apart once, and he didn’t want to watch you go through that again. He wanted to spare you some unhappiness if he could, and I know that his methods were poorly planned, but his intentions were the very best, I promise you that.” 

When Enjolras looked at him with those wide, honest brown eyes, he found it hard to be so angry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suck for taking so long at updating this!!
> 
> Where do you guys think this should go next? Leave me a comment a let me know! Or just let me know your general thoughts... I love feedback.


	12. Update

This story has been getting a bit of attention again recently and people have been asking why I abandoned it and have been asking me to start writing new chapters for it again. I can honestly say that the story as it is now will never be finished because I felt like I lost sight of it completely when I stopped writing it and I hated where I had taken it. However, I have been considering rewriting it. I haven't written anything at all for over a year; I've been busy with work and figuring out life without my parents, and then the laptop that I wrote it on broke beyond repair so I lost everything that I had been working on, but recently I've been getting so many ideas and I can't wait to start posting again. 

When I started writing this I was so proud of it, but reading it back now, I'm proud of maybe the first chapter and I really don't like anything that follows. I still love the idea of the story, so I will most likely rewrite the entire thing in the near future, and hopefully give it the ending it deserves this time. 

So, let me know what you guys think, all of you who've been asking for a new chapter. I do have something in the works that I want to post before I even start writing this again, but if people want it, then I'll definitely get to it.


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